Things We Always Were
by frombluetored
Summary: Sequel/spin-off to my fic "Of Adoration and Chaos". Who you are in someone's memories is who you stay. Eight stories, eight different perspectives, and eight words to describe the Doctor and Clara.
1. Brave

**A/n: **This fic is a sequel of sorts. It's following my completed fic _Of Adoration and Chaos _and it won't make much sense if you haven't read that one! Just a warning :)

For those who have read OAAC- I never planned on this fic, and I was reluctant to write it, but it's all I've had inspiration for for a few weeks now. So I decided to go with it for the sake of my own sanity ;) Each chapter will be from a different character's point of view and the focus will be on each character's perceptions of Clara and the Doctor. Just as in OAAC, there's no linear structure here. Each chapter is a special memory each person had of Clara and the Doctor and it's made to stand alone inside of the story. I've posted around eleven chapters that I originally cut from OAAC on my blog (there's a link on my profile), and for the majority of this story, you don't need to have read those to understand. But at least one of these chapters will heavily reference one of the cut chapters, so I'll make sure to list the name of that cut chapter and where to find it in the A/N of that chapter. This chapter takes place right after chapter 18 of OAAC, just in case you're reading and can't remember what's being referenced. As always, I'm so grateful to all who read and share their thoughts, and I hope you enjoy! Happy Father's Day :)

* * *

_**"****When I die, your memories of me will be my greatest accomplishment. Your memories will be my most lasting impressions."****  
**― David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary_

* * *

_PART 1/8 | __BRISTOL | Rated K+  
_

**Brave**

* * *

At the time, he'd thought watching a rated 15 horror film with his friend was a great idea.

His parents wouldn't let him watch anything above PG, so he'd never really understood _why _he wasn't supposed to watch higher rated films. He just assumed they were being overprotective, and when he found out that Anthony's mum let _him _watch anything he wanted, he knew his assumption had to be true. So he stretched out on the carpet and waited with excitement as Anthony's older brother put a film in for them, not really knowing _what _to expect, but when the film actually began, he realized it was extremely far from anything he could have come up with.

He didn't want to be a baby. After all, his friend was eight years old, too. If he could watch without even batting an eyelash, why couldn't Bristol manage to do the same? But no matter how sternly he tried to talk sense into himself, the fact remained that he was not enjoying it.

When the demonic ghosts dragged another person up into the loft, Bristol decided he'd had enough. His body was shaking and his palms hurt from where he'd dug his nails into his skin, to try and keep from jumping. He was embarrassed to be so scared, but he couldn't help it.

"Anthony," he hissed. He reached over and tapped his friend's shoulder. He spared him a brief look, utterly entranced by the film.

"Yeah?" He asked. "Isn't this wicked cool?"

Bristol shrank back as the demon creature screamed into the camera. He crossed his legs tightly and felt his face grow impossibly hot as he realized how close he'd been to weeing his pants. _I'm almost ten, I'm almost ten, I'm almost ten_, he thought, but that didn't change a thing. When the demonic creature sat on the father's chest and stabbed his long, dirty nails into his eyeballs, he'd had it.

"I'm—I feel sick." He croaked. He jumped up to his feet, quivering on legs that felt like chewed gum, his stomach queasy. "I need to go home."

Anthony looked over his shoulder and frowned.

"I thought you were staying the night?"

Bristol grasped his stomach. "I was. Only now I'm about to bring your mum's soup up."

_And I want my mum_, he added silently, but he couldn't say it aloud. He reached into his overnight bag and grasped the mobile phone his mum gave him for the night.

"I'm going to the toilet," he said.

"All right." Anthony said. He'd already looked back to the film with rapt attention.

Bristol shut the bathroom door quietly behind him. He pulled the phone from his pocket and unlocked it as he sat down slowly on the edge of the bathtub. He scrolled through until he located the S's, and then he found SMITH-OSWALD, CLARA. He felt his gut unraveling some just from the sound of the ringing phone, because he knew he was minutes away from being where he wanted to be most.

He could hear the loud dinner conversation when his mum picked up. He thought to the weird dinner he'd had with Anthony and his brother and wished he'd never, ever asked his parents to go over to Anthony's. He wanted to be at home, at _his _dinner table.

"Hi, love! Is everything all right?" Clara asked.

_Is that Bristol?, _his dad asked in the background. _Is he okay?_

Bristol reached up to tug at his hair, but he remembered as his fingers touched air that he'd gotten a massive, terrible haircut (courtesy of his father; he'd never let him take him to the hairdressers ever again). He rubbed his exposed ears nervously instead.

"I want to come home." He admitted softly.

He heard the chair scrape the floor as his mother rose to her feet. The sound of his siblings' laughter grew dimmer and dimmer in the background.

"Oh? Why is that?"

The gentle tone of his mum's voice made him tear up like a big baby. He tugged on his earlobe and bit his bottom lip.

"I just want to." He said. "I want someone to come get me. A lot."

"Okay, yes, of course," she said quickly. "I'll send your dad right now."

Bristol shut his eyes in relief.

"Thanks, Mummy." He whispered.

* * *

He waited on the front steps with his bag. Anthony and his brother were inside finishing the film, and Bristol was starting to doubt that Anthony's mum was even home at all. He saw her one time that afternoon, but then she'd disappeared upstairs for the rest of the time. She didn't even come down for dinner. Bristol wondered if she was upset, because she was shaky and her nose was red the one time he saw her.

He jumped to his feet and ran towards the curb the moment the car came into view. He opened the passenger door before his father could even put it in park and tossed his bag in. He crawled up into the seat and yanked the door shut behind him.

"Yikes," his dad frowned. "Rough night?"

Bristol slid to the right and leaned over. He rested his cheek on his dad's forearm, glad that he was there (and that he hadn't had his eyes stabbed into a bloody pulp by a demonic ghost). His dad settled his other hand on his hair (or what was left of it) and smoothed it back for a few moments.

"What is it?" He asked worriedly. "Was Anthony mean?"

Bristol shrugged. He didn't want to tell him he'd watched something he wasn't supposed to. After waiting a minute for an answer that wasn't going to come, his dad sighed and leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Bristol's head.

"All right, buddy. Let's go home." He sighed.

Bristol leaned his head against the cool window as they drove. He tried not to let them, but his thoughts kept flying to the images he'd seen on Anthony's television screen. He glanced at his dad from the corner of his eye. He thought about the nightmares he'd _finally _stopped having about the man who stabbed his dad in the supermarket, and he wondered if now he'd be having nightmares of that man stabbing his eyes, instead. He hoped not.

"Are you okay?"

Bristol looked down at his lap and shrugged again.

"You're starting to worry me." The Doctor admitted.

He decided to tell a half-truth. It was better than an outright lie, anyway.

"I was thinking about the man that hurt you." He muttered.

His dad was quiet for a few moments. He glanced over and met Bristol's eyes.

"Oh." he said. He smiled reassuringly. "Well, it's been a month and I'm all better, so you don't need to worry about me."

"I guess," Bristol muttered.

A heavy silence fell over them. His dad thumped the steering wheel.

"Hey, think about our camping trip. That's only two days away!" He said excitedly.

That pulled a reluctant smile from Bristol. He glanced back towards his dad.

"Yeah, I can't wait!" He agreed. He realized suddenly that his haircut was an awful lot like the cut his dad had, and that made him feel insanely cool. He decided he wasn't dreading going to school after all. "Just us! Me and you! And the outdoors!"

"_And_ Miles." The Doctor reminded him sternly.

Bristol crossed his arms. "I keep hoping you'll forget that part."

"Not a chance."

Bristol sighed and leaned his head against the window. He never got to do anything alone with his parents. But then he thought about the scene in the horror film where the girl's siblings got killed, and he decided there were worse things out there.

* * *

He still felt ill when he got home. He hugged his mum and waited as she kissed his cheek, and he let her take his bag, but then he hurried towards the stairs.

"I'm tired," he told them. He faked a yawn, but he knew he didn't do that great of a job. "'Night."

He paused at the foot of the stairs. He turned back around and looked up at Clara.

"But…you'll still come kiss me goodnight before you go to sleep, won't you?" He asked nervously.

She smiled.

"I'll do one better. I'll come up with you right now." She said.

Bristol took her hand as soon as she stepped up onto the stairs. He was smiling as they walked up to his room.

He wanted to lie and say he'd brushed his teeth at Anthony's, but he was already feeling guilty enough for lying about the film, even if it was a lie of omission. He brushed his teeth and then crawled underneath his duvet. Clara sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the blankets over him.

"What happened at Anthony's?" She asked him.

He looked down guiltily.

"Nothing," he lied, but his voice broke. He blinked rapidly against the burning in his eyes. He mostly didn't want his mum to leave him alone in his dark bedroom. He looked up at her. "Can I sleep with the light on?"

She shifted closer to him and frowned.

"Why? Did something scare you at Anthony's house? His dad wasn't there, was he?"

Bristol looked at her curiously. "No…why would it be bad if he was?"

Her shoulders went down in relief. She smiled at him.

"No reason. And _you _didn't answer _my _question," she reminded him. She tapped the tip of his nose and Bristol smiled despite the anxiety curling around his stomach. He stared at her warm eyes for a moment and tried to find the strength to lie again, but he couldn't. He just wanted to tell her everything, so she could make it better.

"Something did scare me." He admitted. He felt his lips turn down and his heart clench at the memory.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He sniffed. "I don't wanna get in trouble."

His mum lifted her hand and rested it on the crown of his head. She stroked his forehead with her thumb, her eyes intent on his with worry.

"Love, if you're this scared, you've already learnt your lesson." She pointed out gently.

He wasn't sure about that, but he looked down anyway. He murmured the admission.

"I watched a rated 15 film with Anthony and his brother."

"I see," his mother said. When he risked a glance up at her, he was relieved to see her expression hadn't changed one bit. She didn't look angry at all. "Do you understand why your dad and I don't want you to watch them now?"

He nodded fervently.

"Yes. It was awful." He shifted closer to her without even realizing it. He felt his heart rate pick up as images of the film assaulted him. "Mummy…I keep seeing it when I close my eyes. The evil ghosts lived in the loft. And they stabbed their nails into the dad's eyeballs."

She grimaced.

"That sounds like a _terrible_ film." She decided.

"It was." He agreed. "I wish I'd never, ever watched it."

He thought she was about to leave as she stood up from the bed, and his entire stomach fell to his toes. He was about to beg her not to leave him alone, but then she pulled his covers back and slid underneath them. Bristol turned and sank into her opened arms. He pressed his face into her chest and gripped her tightly in a hug that he never wanted to end.

"It's not even just a film," he muttered into her shirt.

She leaned back and looked down at him.

"Hmm?" She asked.

He reached forward and played absentmindedly with her hair.

"It's not just a film. People do that in real life. They stab dads." He realized. "Like they stabbed mine. And they don't even have to live in your loft. Or be evil ghosts. They can be anywhere."

Clara was quiet for a lot longer than she usually was. When he peeked up at her, he saw she looked sad. He worried that he'd made her that way somehow.

"That's true," she finally said. She spoke slowly, like she was making sure she didn't mess it up. "There are bad people in films and in real life. But you don't have to worry, because your dad and I will never let anything happen to you."

He looked down. He stared at the blurry outline of his dark eyelashes and breathed deeply, to try and ward off the panicky feelings that were already starting.

"What about you and him?"

She kissed the top of his head.

"Nothing to worry about, because I keep your dad safe, and he keeps me safe." She said firmly. "No one will ever harm him again."

His mum always told the truth, and she never let her children down, so Bristol was completely at ease with that promise. He turned over onto his back and let his tired eyes shut, taking comfort in the fact that his mum was right beside him. But then he thought about Anthony, and how he didn't seem to like his mum being anywhere near him, and then he remembered a name Anthony had called him.

He turned his head and looked at Clara.

"Anthony called me a mummy's boy." He told her. He knew enough to know it meant he was a baby. He felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment, even then.

She frowned. "You're eight; what else are you supposed to be?"

Bristol picked at the blanket. "Maybe big, like a ten-year-old. Anthony doesn't like his mum."

"Do you wish you didn't like me?"

Bristol looked towards her quickly.

"No," he said immediately. He thought about it. "I wish Anthony liked his."

She smiled softly. "Me too, love."

He watched her warily as she stood from his bed. She pulled his blanket up to his shoulders and kissed his forehead. He caught a whiff of home as she did.

"I love you so much. And I'm proud of you for telling me about the film." She said.

He felt all the leftover anxiety inside of himself sink away. He smiled hugely up at her in relief.

"I love you too, Mum."

He wasn't even that scared when she turned the lights off and left, because he knew he was safe.

* * *

He woke up to his parents whispering.

For a moment he thought they were in his room, but when he sleepily propped himself up on his elbows and peered around his dark, empty room, he realized they must have been in the hall. He listened to the floor outside his door creak, and then he quickly collapsed back down onto his bed and shut his eyes. He heard the door click open a moment later.

"—fine. I promise. It's fine. Look, see for yourself. He's sound asleep," Clara hissed.

The floor creaked as his father stepped in.

"Yes, well, you didn't see him when I picked him up. Are you sure Anthony's father wasn't there?"

The volume faded as they stepped back out and shut the door. Judging by the still distinguishable level of their voices when they spoke next, they didn't leave the hall. Bristol guessed they were waiting to hear if Ellie and Lottie were chatting or going to sleep. They'd been bad about talking until midnight every night.

"I'm positive he wasn't. Bristol was so confused when I mentioned him."

"I don't like it, Clara. I don't want him over there anymore."

"We can't just prohibit him from being friends with anyone who has a bad home life."

"Um, yes. Yes we can. That's what being a parent is all about. Prohibiting your kids from getting hurt."

All at once, Bristol understood. Anthony's dad was a bad man, like in the film they watched. His stomach hurt again.

"The man's not even in the country anymore. You heard what his mum said."

"Yes, and I'm fairly certain she's a drug addict."

His mum paused. "Really? Do you think? Well, Bristol did say Anthony wasn't very fond of her."

"Yes. And that's why I don't want him over at Anthony's anymore."

"Okay. But Anthony can still come over here."

Their voices pandered off for a moment.

"Doctor. Don't give me that look. I can't believe _you _of all people want to ban our son from a kid with a checkered past!"

"It's different now, isn't it? I'm his dad. He's my son. I'm not willing to risk his safety."

"My dad didn't want me to associate with you when you first moved in with Tara. If he'd chosen not to 'risk my safety', Bristol wouldn't even exist."

"Faulty argument. It's not like Bristol and Anthony can run off and have five babies."

"Why the hell not?"

"…I meant that from a narrow, biological standpoint, but I get what you're saying. Nevermind. I just…worry. Seeing him so upset tonight really put it all into perspective. Made me rethink it all."

Bristol scrunched up his nose in disgust when he heard the sound of kissing.

"I understand. And—wait! Shh! Do you hear that?"

Their voices rose.

"Charlotte Elsie. Ellabell Nora. We hear you and we're _very frustrated_!" His father called.

"BUT I FORGOT TO TELL HER SOMETHING! AND I'M NOT TIRED!"

"Shh! Your brother is sleeping!" Clara scolded.

_Or maybe not_, Bristol thought. He grinned and decided he liked being awake secretly. It made him feel like a spy.

"Can we_ please_ not do this tonight? Your mum and I would love to be in bed by eleven for once." The Doctor practically begged. "I have to leave for the camping trip soon and I'd like a few solid nights of sleep before then."

"WHY CAN'T YOU SLEEP BEFORE US? WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO BE ASLEEP BEFORE YOU?"

"SHHH!"

Lottie lowered her voice after an angered groan.

"It's not logical! You're sleepier than Ellie and me, so you should sleep _first_!"

"_What do you do while we're asleep?!" _Ellabell hissed.

"Taxes. Go to sleep." Clara said flatly. "And I mean it, you two. It's not good for you to stay up so late."

"Fine," Lottie grumbled. "But I have one more thing I want to talk about."

"Oh dear God," Clara moaned quietly. Bristol was sure the girls couldn't hear it, but he had. He felt sad and wanted to run out into the hallway and scream _LET THEM GO TO BED_, but then he'd be found out.

"It really hurt my feelings that I wasn't invited on the camping trip." Lottie called.

Bristol heard the floor shift as both parents moved closer to Lottie and Ellie's door. He listened to the creaking hinges as the door was pushed open, and then he knew what he had to do. He held his breath as he tossed his blankets back and landed gently on the floor. He tiptoed across the room and crouched in front of his door so he could hear them. He could only _just_ make out their words, but he understood, and that was the important thing.

"Oh. I didn't even…it's a father-son trip, you know?" The Doctor said. He sounded like he felt bad about it.

_That's right_, Bristol thought smugly. _Father-son. _Or, well, father-_sons_. His smile slid off his face.

"Why is it only sons? I like camping." Lottie reminded him. "I like camping a lot. Way more than Miles. He hates it, but he gets to go. And Bristol is a scaredy-cat."

"We didn't think you'd want to go," Clara admitted. "Because…"

"Because no girls are going?" Lottie demanded angrily. "That's rubbish, Mum!"

"I'm sorry, love. I guess we should have asked. We just thought a father-son camping trip was a fun idea, so the boys could bond." She said gently.

Bristol heard his sister's words get thick, the way they only did when she was nearing tears.

"I want to bond, too," she whispered, injured. "Why can't they bond while I'm there? And I _really_ love camping."

The Doctor's voice was firm and decided.

"Then you're coming along. If you want to come, there's no reason you shouldn't be able to. It can be a father-sons-and-daughter trip."

Bristol's stomach sank straight to his toes. His hands were shaking with fury as he yanked the door open. He fell right out into the hall, face first. He was lifting himself up right as his parents turned around in surprise.

"NO!" He cried passionately. "First Miles, now _Lottie_?! No! What's next, are we going to bring Poppy along?! _Ellie?!_"

"Hey!" Ellabell protested.

His dad turned around and sighed. He reached up and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Bristol, how would you feel if your mum took the girls somewhere on a weekend and wouldn't let you come? Just because you're a boy?" He asked tiredly.

Bristol dug his heels into the ground and stood straight.

"I would not care, because I don't like to do the same things they do!" He insisted angrily.

Clara raised an eyebrow. "You go shopping with us all the time. You love shopping. You're my coupon holder. My bargain spotter. I always take you along because you like it, no matter if that's a "mother-daughter" thing usually."

He floundered for an argument to that.

"Well…! I…am really good at it!" He stamped his foot.

"And_ I'm_ really good at camping!" Lottie shot right back.

Bristol groaned loudly. He wanted terribly to jump up and down and scream. His heart hurt and his nose felt hot and it wasn't _fair_. He never got to do anything with his mum or dad alone.

"It's not fair! It was supposed to just be me and you!" He yelled at his dad. "And then you invited Miles, and now Lottie, and I wanted to do something with _you_, Dad!"

He spun and stormed back into his room, slamming the heavy door behind him. His small fingers fumbled with the lock for a few moments, and once it clicked, he threw himself onto his bed. He cried bitterly into his messy duvet, his heart pounding with anger and frustration. He heard his parents knocking on the door, but for once, he didn't care. He pulled his pillow over his head and ignored them.

It took them a while to find the key. By the time they were in, Bristol was almost asleep again. He felt his mum's warm hand settle on his back as they both sat on the edge of his bed.

"Why does it matter so much if your brother and sister come?" The Doctor asked softly. "You're still camping with me, regardless of who else is there."

Bristol turned his face to the side. His bed sheet was damp from his tears. He held the pillow firmly in place over his head, because he wasn't ready to look at them yet. He felt frustrated because he couldn't put words to the way he felt. He just knew that ever since his dad was hurt, he'd been missing him, even though he was okay. He'd tried to talk to his mum about it, but he just ended up stumbling over his words. He'd wanted to talk to his dad about it that weekend, but now Miles and Lottie would be there, and they would make fun of him.

"Because I wanted to talk to you about stuff. Just you. Not Miles or Lottie." He sniffed.

His dad sounded hurt when he spoke next.

"You can talk to me alone whenever you need to, Bristol. You don't have to wait until we're camping. All you ever have to do is ask to talk, and that's what we'll do."

"But you're always busy. You're at work and then patients even come here sometimes. And when I want to talk to you, Lottie or Poppy interrupt me." He whispered.

"There's a lot going on here, I know. But any time you need to talk to me alone, you just have to tell me that, okay? I promise I'll drop whatever it is I'm doing immediately. Of course I would." His dad reassured him. He patted his back.

Bristol thought about it for a moment. He slowly moved the pillow and sat up. His mother frowned at his tear-streaked face; she reached forward to wipe the tears off his cheeks first thing. Bristol felt his heart cave in, and then he moved forward into her arms. She hugged him tightly.

"I'll tell you what," the Doctor began. "Why don't we have a Bristol-Dad day tomorrow. Just you and me. I have to work, but you can come with me. In fact, we could make it a tradition."

Bristol pulled back and looked up at his dad.

"Just us?" He asked cautiously.

"Just us." His dad promised. "Cross my heart. And your mum's, too." He traced an X over his heart and then reached over to do the same to Clara's. She rolled her eyes at him.

"I think that sounds fun." He decided.

His dad beamed. "Brilliant! I think it sounds fun, too."

"Are you still sad?" Clara asked.

Bristol smiled at her and she grinned back.

"No."

She tightened her arms around him once again. "Good."

They both kissed him goodnight, and after they shut his door, he slipped easily into sleep.

* * *

He woke up to his little sister clinging to his back.

"Brittle, Brittle, it's breakfast time!" She sang.

He turned over onto his left, effectively slinging her off his back, and then sat up. He rubbed his blurry eyes hard in annoyance as Poppy crawled right back into his lap, her small arms winding tight around his waist. She held him and didn't say a word, and even though he wanted very much to push her off, he couldn't find it in himself to do it. He slid them to the edge of the bed and climbed off. He shifted her weight in his arms and carried her slowly from the room, stumbling every few steps in his exhaustion.

"What's for breakfast?" He asked her sleepily.

"Mummy says we can pick!" She exclaimed.

Bristol felt his heart jump with excitement.

"But it's not Sunday!" He said. Poppy didn't say anything else; she just tightened her hold on his neck.

He thought about what he might pick as they descended the stairs. When he walked in, his mum was at the table with everyone but his dad, and sure enough, everyone had something different. He set Poppy down on the floor and took a moment to survey their choices, so he could make the best selection. His mum had boring toast and coffee, Ellie was eating what looked like hummus and bread—but she'd given up on the bread and was spooning the hummus into her mouth, Lottie had a peanut butter sandwich, and Miles was sticking with plain coco pops, which he could have any day. Bristol wasn't very impressed.

"I want turkey meatballs!" Bristol declared.

His mum gestured to the stove with her mug of coffee.

"If you want to drive to the supermarket to get the stuff and then make it, sure." She said. She lifted the mug to him a moment later and smiled. "Morning, Bristol. Did you sleep well?"

He hurried over to the fridge so fast that he slipped in his socked feet. He quickly grabbed onto the fridge handle to right himself. He replied to his mum with his head inside the fridge.

"I guess!" He called. He scanned his eyes over the items carefully. All at once, he knew what he wanted, but they didn't have it. He decided to try his luck anyway. "Can we go get chicken kebabs?!"

His mum rose and carried her plate to the sink. She picked Poppy up and set her on the counter, leaning forward to kiss her before she walked over to where Bristol was. She set her hand on top of his head and answered him as she moved him to the side, so she could reach into the fridge and pull out the yogurt and fruit for Poppy's breakfast.

"Perhaps your dad will get you that for lunch," she suggested. She gathered what she was looking for and paused. "Although, he hasn't eaten one since the rat meat thing, so don't count on it."

Bristol groaned. He slouched against the counter and frowned.

"Then what am I supposed to eat?" He complained.

His mum looked towards the fruit and yogurt she was mixing for his sister.

"I'll make you one of these, if you like. Or an egg sandwich."

He scoffed. When his dad walked in, he perked up.

"Dad! Daddy! Will you get me a kebab for breakfast?!" He asked hopefully.

His dad hung his medical coat on the hook near the door. He rolled up his sleeves carefully as he walked over to the counter.

"No way. You lot aren't eating those anymore. Rat meat." He responded.

"Told you," Clara said.

Bristol pouted and slid down so he was sitting on the kitchen floor. He waited impatiently as the Doctor gathered Clara into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth.

"Ew, I'm eating here!" Lottie complained. Clara rolled her eyes. The Doctor held her face in his hands and looked down at her curiously.

"Why are we having lazy breakfast on a Thursday?" He asked.

Clara set her hands on his forearms. "Because I woke up with a terrible headache."

The Doctor frowned. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead for what seemed like a long time to Bristol. He drummed his fingers against the tile floor impatiently.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have made breakfast." He reminded her. She shrugged and leaned up to kiss him one more time.

"Lazy breakfast works just as well."

Bristol huffed. He felt the conversation had turned away from kebabs too quickly for his liking.

"But _Dad_," Bristol called from the floor.

His dad picked up Poppy and swung her around. He replied to his son over Poppy's overjoyed giggles.

"Don't 'but Dad' me. I don't want you eating that. I'll make some chicken kebabs for dinner, how about that?" He suggested.

Bristol sighed. "Yours taste too…healthy. Ick."

The Doctor set Poppy down in her seat after kissing her cheeks. He dropped kisses on top of Lottie, Ellie, and Miles' heads as he passed, and by the time he made it to Bristol, Bristol wasn't sure whether he even wanted a good morning kiss.

"I'm going to make cheesy falafels," his dad sang knowingly. "I can make enough for both of us." Bristol jumped straight up and flung his arms around his dad's middle.

"BLESS YOU!" He cried. He smiled as his dad kissed the top of his head.

Bristol sat down in the seat across from his mum as the Doctor started cooking. Lottie asked him about last night, so he immediately dove into a long-winded explanation of the horror film ordeal, but halfway through he was interrupted by his brother's small feet smacking his shins. He glared at him.

"Stop kicking me."

Miles blinked his green eyes. He turned and looked at their mum uncertainly. She shrugged.

"I'm not kicking," he said.

Bristol looked at him suspiciously, but turned back to Lottie anyway. After a few more moments, his mum's phone rang, and he felt another kick to his legs. He huffed.

"STOP IT!" He said loudly.

Miles scooted closer to Ellie's side, his eyes wide.

"I'm not _doing _anything!" he defended. Ellabell wrapped her arm around her brother's shoulders.

"Lay off, Bristol. He's too short to reach you all the way over there." She snapped.

"Hello?" Clara greeted. She let out a frustrated sigh a moment later, one that had all her children looking at her immediately, because they recognized to that sigh. Someone was about to get in trouble. She set her mug down angrily onto the tabletop. "I beg your pardon? You lost _what_? An _airplane?_"

The Doctor whistled lowly from in front of the mixer.

"Mummy's about to go off on someone," he sang. His children laughed.

Clara pushed her chair back and rose from the table. She grabbed her coffee mug from the top and paced away from the table, listening intently to whatever the person on the other end was saying. She looked up at the ceiling in exasperation.

"Dear God. I really—Christ, sorry, I'm just having a hard time understanding how you screwed up this badly." She admitted. "It's an airplane. A giant flying fuc—how on earth did you forget to reprogram the navigation circuits?!"

Bristol slapped the top of the table when he felt another tap against his legs. He stood up from his chair.

"STOP KICKING ME, MILES!" He yelled. "MUM, HE WON'T STOP KICKING ME!"

"I'M NOT! I'M NOT KICKING!"

"YES YOU ARE! MUM!"

Clara covered the bottom of the phone. "Doctor, can you _please—_" she stopped abruptly. She lifted her hand off and resumed speaking to whoever was on the other end. "Yes, that's _exactly _what I want you to do! And I don't think that's asking too much!"

Her words faded as she walked quickly from the kitchen. They all looked up as their dad approached, his hands on his hips.

"Lottie." He said firmly.

Everyone turned and looked at her. She stared at her dad in confusion, and all at once, it hit her.

"Oooh! I thought that was the _table_," she realized.

"Likely story." Their dad said. He pointed the whisk at her sternly. "Save the kicking for the fields."

"When will my falafel be ready?" Bristol asked.

"Soon." The Doctor reassured him. He looked down as Poppy dropped from her seat and stepped up onto his foot. She clung to his leg. "Do you want to help, Pop?"

"Yes." She said. He laughed bemusedly and began taking slow, heavy steps back to where he was. He looked back over his shoulder a moment later. "Does anyone else want to help?"

The table shook as they all simultaneously pushed their chairs out and jumped to their feet.

* * *

"Good morning," the Doctor greeted cheerfully. The people in the waiting room looked up and grinned elatedly at the sight of him.

"Good morning," Bristol echoed, trying his hardest to match his father's long-legged pace. His dad grinned down at him as a few of the patients echoed the greeting. He set his hands on his son's shoulders and pulled him in front of him.

"This is my son, Bristol," the Doctor introduced. Bristol beamed at how proudly his dad said those words. "He's going to be assisting me today from the sidelines."

The women in the room _aww_'ed and _ooh_'ed. Bristol even caught one lady looking weirdly at his dad, kind of the way his mum looked at him sometimes. It made him feel sort of angry, although he wasn't sure why. He just knew he didn't like the woman using his mum's look, because it was hers.

"Does he want to be a doctor as well?" That woman asked. She fluttered her eyelashes a lot. Bristol wondered if she had an eyelash stuck in her eyeball, because he sometimes had to blink a whole bunch to get those out.

The Doctor looked towards his son, prompting him to answer the woman's question. He took a deep breath.

"No, I hate blood. My dad says that's my Achilles' heel. I want to be a solicitor astronaut. Or maybe sell cotton candy in Blackpool." He told the woman. He shrugged. "My mum says I have time to make up my mind."

Another woman laughed loudly, although Bristol wasn't sure what was so funny.

"A solicitor astronaut? What's that?" She asked.

He looked at her strangely.

"The solicitor that goes up into space with the astronauts and helps them win court battles, of course." He told her. "They are _loaded._"

The eyelash lady laughed and laughed and laughed. Bristol looked at her like she was mad, because she probably was.

"Oh, what a funny little boy. Your wife must be a strange character to impart such weird ideas!"

Bristol looked up at his dad uncertainly. He was smiling politely at the woman, but his eyes looked tired, and the smile seemed forced.

"Well, it was our eldest daughter who convinced Bristol that that's an actual job. But perhaps one day it will be a job, and my son would be perfect for it."

Bristol waited for his dad to say more. He didn't know what a 'strange character' really meant, but he didn't like the way it sounded. He crossed his small arms.

"And my mum is not a strange character. She's the best mum ever and she makes the best crunchy cheese soufflés for breakfast in the entire history of Earth." He snapped.

The lady let out a short laugh that didn't sound very humored.

"Oh my. I didn't know soufflés were supposed to be crunchy." She commented lightly. "I ought to send her my breakfast quiche recipe. You'd love it, little man."

All at once, Bristol knew exactly who the lady was. She was Ms. Munchausen Homewrecker (he'd heard his parents talking about her from time-to-time). They did not like her, that much he knew for sure. Bristol remembered overhearing that she'd tried to pay her daughter's medical bills with something that was not money, but he didn't really know what they meant. He just knew his dad had told her no way and his mum had gotten into a fight with her. He supposed they weren't friends, and if his mum wasn't friends with her, that meant Bristol wasn't, either.

He narrowed his eyes.

"I do not _like _quiche, Ms. Munc—"

His father's hand covered his mouth quickly. The woman arched a thin eyebrow.

"Well, we've got things to do, people to see to. Come along, Bristol!" He said. "We'll see to you all as soon as possible." He stopped and turned, realizing something. He grinned. "Amanda! You've got your braces off!"

A girl around Bristol's age grinned, and when she smiled, Bristol stopped in place. Because her smile was lovely and white, and it made him smile, too.

"Just last week!" Her mother affirmed. "Although now she's got some respiratory problems. Just can't catch a break, this one."

The Doctor smiled kindly. "Well, we'll get it sorted, won't we?"

"Yeah," Bristol piped up. "We will. I like your teeth."

Her cheeks pinked. She looked down at her dirty trainers. "Thanks."

The Doctor clapped Bristol on the shoulder. "Let's go make sure everything's ready in the examining room." He said. Once his back was to the patients, he shot his son a knowing smirk. Bristol's ears burned as he quickly looked towards his own feet.

He sat in the spinning chair in the examining room as his dad counted boxes of rubber gloves and syringes.

"Bristol, will you open that bag of Jelly Babies and pour them into the jar?" He called over his shoulder. Bristol reached out and grabbed onto the counter, halting the spinning abruptly. He groaned and grasped his stomach.

"As soon as the world stops spinning," he moaned.

He moved to the cool examination table and sat on the crinkly paper. He put one Jelly Baby into the jar and one into his mouth, and he continued that pattern until his dad checked his watch and then looked back to see how far he'd come. He sighed.

"Bristol." He scolded. Bristol quickly pulled his hand from the bag and poured the entire contents into the jar.

"How come ill kids get sweets and I don't?" He complained.

"Because they're ill." His dad replied.

Bristol sighed and pushed the lid onto the jar. He didn't understand why other kids got to go see his dad when they were sick, but he had to go see Dr. Reynolds, who didn't give sweets and always smelled like cigarettes. His dad said it was because they sometimes needed "objective opinions", but he wasn't sure what that was about.

"I'm going to run out and ask Kathy something. Can you pick some good magazines from the pile? Ones you'll think kids will like the best?" His dad asked. Bristol nodded and hopped off the examining table. His dad placed the jar carefully on the counter and then pointed to the magazine tray. "Place them here when you pick them."

His dad left the door opened, and because of that, Bristol found he could hear every word of his conversation with Kathy. He rifled halfheartedly through the magazines, but then he got bored. He picked three at random and put them where his father instructed. He stuffed the others underneath the cabinet and hurried to the doorway so he could hear better.

"What did Ms. Lem write on the admittance form?"

"She said Annalise has head trauma."

His dad was quiet for a long time. Bristol peeked out of the doorway. His dad had his head bowed.

"It's gone too far." He said.

"I know."

"Get me the social worker's number, please. It's on my desk— it's the yellow note stuck to the keyboard. I'll see to Annalise before I ring her, but I'm not seeing a different end to this."

"What did she say about the case after she received the referral form?"

"She said there wasn't enough evidence yet. But she told me she'd keep their file opened and told me to ring her if I saw anything else that worried me. She said she'd come here personally with Child Services if I found any evidence of physical abuse."

"And this is definitely worrying. Do you want me to come in during the exam for some rubbish form thing? To get her out of the room, so you can talk to Annalise alone before you make the call?"

"That'd be brilliant. Thank you, Kathy."

Bristol hurried over to the spinning chair when he heard his dad walking back. He sat down on it so quickly that the wheeled chair slid fast across the room. It slammed hard into the window on the far wall, causing Bristol to hit his shoulder.

"Ow," he hissed. He rubbed his shoulder crossly.

The Doctor looked preoccupied and guilty when he walked back in. He picked up the magazine on top and barely looked at the one underneath it. He smiled tightly at his son.

"Thank you, Bristol."

He crossed the room and leaned against the desk, so he was standing right across from his son. Bristol stared at him and waited.

"Buddy, I'm going to have to ask Uncle Ten to come get you." He told him gently.

Bristol's heart sank. He sat up and felt his expression crumble.

"No!" He cried. "It's our Bristol-Dad day!"

"I know. I know, I'm so, so sorry." His dad whispered. "But there are things that are going on today that I don't want you to see."

Bristol looked down at his lap. His heart felt so heavy that he couldn't even lift his head.

"But I want to be here with you." He said softly. "Why can't I stay? I'm not a baby. I'm not."

"Of course you aren't." His dad reassured him. "It has nothing to do with that."

Bristol felt his eyes burn. "Yes it does. It always does. You think I'm a dumb scaredy-cat."

His dad reached forward and took his hands. "No. I absolutely do _not_ think that. I think you're extremely brave."

Bristol looked up. "Is this about the lady Mummy hates?"

The Doctor hesitated. He dropped his son's hands and watched him carefully, like he was considering his words carefully before he said them.

"Yes," he finally admitted. "I have to do something very difficult today. And I don't want you to be part of it."

Bristol furrowed his brow. "What do you have to do?"

His dad pursed his lips tightly.

"I have to split up a family." He said. "I have to phone someone who will take a girl from her home."

Bristol blinked and tried to understand.

"Away from her home?" He asked. He paused. "Away from her mum and dad?"

He nodded.

"Yes. Her mother is not treating her kindly. She's hurting her daughter just so people will feel sorry for her. At first she was just lying, but now it's gotten worse. And it breaks my heart to cause someone's child to be taken away, but that lady doesn't deserve a child, because she hurts her."

Bristol's lungs felt weird—all burning and tight—and then he realized he'd stopped breathing for a moment. He inhaled slowly and looked down at the floor. He wrinkled his brow.

"But…mums love their kids." He looked up. "Don't they?"

"Yours does. Most do. But some mums and some dads…sometimes bad people become parents. And then they're bad to their children. And it's up to the other adults in those kids' lives to make sure they're safe."

"Why would a mum hurt her kid, though?" Bristol pressed. "Was the little girl really, really, really, really bad?"

But he couldn't think of one thing bad enough to ever make his mum hurt him. He tried and tried, but he couldn't picture a situation where she'd ever be mean enough to do that.

"No." His dad said firmly. "No. It is _never _okay for a grown up to hurt a child, even if they misbehave. An adult should never put their hands on you to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable, or say mean things to hurt your feelings, or not help you when you need it."

Bristol shook his head.

"I would never, _ever _eat that mean lady's quiche." He said angrily.

His dad laughed, but it was short and sad sounding.

"The woman will get very angry when they come to take her child. I can't let the girl go home with her mother for even one more night. I'm afraid of what she'll do when she gets angry, and I don't want you in the cross-fire." He admitted.

Bristol straightened. "I can handle it, Dad. I don't want to leave you by yourself. Please, can I stay?"

His dad appraised him for a few moments. After a long pause, he nodded.

"Okay. But only if you'll agree to sit with Kathy in the lounge when the officials show up."

Bristol didn't particularly _want _to be around an angry mad woman, so he nodded easily.

"Okay. I promise."

The Doctor made a quick call to Bristol's mum before he started seeing patients. Bristol filled a medical glove with water as his dad told her all about the mean lady.

"I know. Yes. I am sad. I know, I promise. She—what? No. No. I promise. She will not lay a finger on our son. He'll be in a different room." His dad glanced over at him. "He's turning a rubber glove into a water balloon right now. Bristol, do you want to talk to your mum?"

Bristol dropped the full glove right into the bottom of the sink.

"Do I?!" He asked excitedly. He stood on the chair he'd been kneeling on and reached for the phone eagerly.

The Doctor chuckled. "No, Clara, he doesn't want to talk to you one bit." He joked. "Here you go."

Bristol yanked the phone from his dad and plopped down onto the seat.

"Hi, Mum!" He greeted.

"Hello! Are you having fun with your dad?" She asked. He could hear a lot of madness going on in the background. He wanted to stick is head through the phone and tell everyone to shut it.

"Sort of. It's been kind of slow so far," he sighed. His mum laughed loudly on the other end.

"Really now? Well, I'm sure it'll pick up. Listen, Bristol. I want you to promise you'll stay with Kathy like your dad asked you to. If you can't promise me you will, I'm going to have to send Tara to come pick you up."

"I can promise." Bristol reassured her. "I _do _promise."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "That's my boy. I love you. I'll see you after work."

"I love you, too!"

He got the urge to say _thank you_, but he wasn't sure if she'd know why, so he just ended the call.

* * *

When his dad started calling patients back, he had to go sit in the lounge, but he didn't mind. He watched cartoons nonstop, ate an entire bag of cheese and onion crisps, and drank three juice cartons. By the time his dad came back in, he was lying face down on the sofa, groaning.

"My tummy," he complained.

He heard the sound of the crisps bag crinkling as his dad picked it up.

"Wow. I wonder why." He said sarcastically. "I told you to take it easy with the snacks, Bristol."

"I did take it easy. It was very easy to eat all that," he groaned. "Until now."

The Doctor sighed. "Come on. I'll get you something for your tummy. But let this be a lesson not to overindulge."

"Ughhhhh…I think I'd still do it again," he admitted.

He followed his dad to the food cupboard. He pulled a teabag from one of the many boxes and then pulled a peppermint free from one of the sweets jars.

"Ginger tea with peppermint. Just what the doctor ordered!" He said. He laughed at his own joke a moment later, peeking to see if his son was laughing. Bristol turned down the left side of his mouth and shook his head.

He sat on the sofa and sipped the warm tea slowly, once the peppermint dissolved inside. It was sweet and spicy and kind of gross, but he liked it anyway. His dad kissed the top of his head.

"I've got to go see another patient now. I'll be back. No more snacks."

"Can I help with anything?" He asked. He looked around the room casually. "Have you seen Amanda yet?"

His dad chuckled. "She's next. And I think I'm fine for right now, but maybe after lunch."

Bristol peered into the amber liquid. It was definitely the steam wafting up into his face that was making his cheeks grow pink. "Tell her I said I'm glad she got her braces off. And I hope she feels better."

"Look who's a little gentleman." His dad teased.

"Am not," Bristol said defensively. He took a long, awkward sip.

"Mmhmm," his dad said. He winked. "I'll let you know what she says back."

Bristol absolutely did _not _glance at the clock anxiously every five minutes. That would have been silly.

* * *

He was hanging backwards off the sofa when his dad walked in. He was attempting to see if a rerun episode would feel any different if viewed upside down, but as far as he could tell, there wasn't much difference.

"Hey!" He called.

"Hey!" His dad echoed. He circled around to the front of the sofa and looked at his son curiously. "What are you doing?"

Bristol struggled in his attempt to pull himself back up onto the sofa. His stomach ached as he tried to lift his upper body.

"I was watching this program upside down. But now I'm stuck." He admitted.

His dad chuckled. He walked over and grabbed his son's shoulder, easily flipping him back up onto the sofa. Bristol sighed in relief.

"Thanks!" He said. He noticed his dad's sly grin a moment later. "What?"

"Amanda said thank you. And that she likes your hair." He sang.

Bristol grinned until his face ached. "Really? Cool!"

His dad flopped down onto the sofa.

"Does your tummy feel better? Are you up to eating lunch?"

Bristol frowned. "It's better, but still very full."

The Doctor patted his back. "All right. I'll just eat something here, and whenever you're hungry, I'll make you something."

They both stretched out on the sofa and watched the first half of a film during the lunch break. The Doctor ate leftovers from spaghetti night, and after only twenty minutes, Bristol decided he had enough room for spaghetti, too. He always had enough room for spaghetti.

Once they were done eating, the Doctor sighed.

"Okay. I'm sending Kathy in here, and you need to stay put. Just for my peace of mind. It might be a while. I'll come check in."

Bristol sighed. "Can I play on your tablet at least?"

"Sure. It's in my briefcase on the table." He said. Bristol jumped up to go retrieve it, and by the time he sat back down, his dad was gone. He sighed and stretched out onto the couch. Luckily he had over fifty games on his dad's tablet to pass the time on. When Kathy came in a few minutes later, he was already absorbed in a dot-matching game, which was fine by her. She drank at least three mugs of tea and read a heavy book.

It was at least twenty minutes before the Doctor came in. Kathy had left momentarily to distract Ms. Munchausen Homewrecker, but she'd come back quickly enough. The Doctor wasn't near as content as she'd seemed.

"She tried to say Annalise hit her head on a cabinet door," he told Kathy. His voice was shaking with anger. "She has a concussion. The contusion was close to needing stitches, and it was on the back of her skull. Her mother hadn't cleaned it at all—there was dirt and hair in the wound. How on _earth _would a little girl slam the back of her head _that hard _into a swinging cabinet door?"

He shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

"Did you ring the social worker?" Kathy asked gently.

"Yes. Immediately. But I haven't told her. I told her we're waiting for the MRI machine to free up. She doesn't know I used to be a neurosurgeon. I know a forceful head trauma when I see one." He said.

Bristol paused his game and turned to look up at his dad.

"Will the little girl be okay?" He asked.

His dad nodded. "She'll be just fine, once we get her some place safe."

"Did she tell you anything when you were alone?" Kathy inquired.

"Yes. She said her mum _told her_ she hit her head on a cabinet door. When I asked her how she really did it, she just kept saying _Mummy named the kettle George and George was mad at me." _He said. "When I asked her why George hit her head, she said that Mummy made him. That was enough for me."

Kathy cursed underneath her breath. Bristol looked at her with wide eyes, but didn't say anything.

"What was the mother like?"

"Trying to hang all over me, per usual. She's completely oblivious to the pain she's caused. She doesn't think it matters. I don't think anything matters to her." He said. He shook his head. "God. I feel shit. That little girl has no idea her mother's awful. She loves her wholeheartedly anyway." He rubbed the side of his head and then looked towards Kathy. "Would you mind staying in here for a few more minutes? Not long, I promise. I just…want to talk to Clara."

Bristol perked up, immediately wanting to ask to talk to her too, but then he saw how sad his dad looked. And when Bristol was sad, he wanted to talk to Clara alone, too. He looked back at his game.

"No problem. We're just relaxing, aren't we, Bristol?" Kathy asked.

Bristol smiled. "Yeah. We're having a good time."

The Doctor smiled, but it was strained around his eyes.

"I'm glad to hear that. I'll be right back, Bristol. Thanks, Kathy."

Bristol beat three more levels on his game, and then his dad was back. He looked better than before, and stronger, too. Like he could handle anything.

"Child Services is here." He informed them. "I gave them my information. They're taking the mother in and they're bringing Annalise to her father's home."

The Doctor sat down on the sofa and winced as the sounds of the girl's crying and the mother's screaming filled the hall. Bristol leaned his head against his dad's shoulder. He knew what his dad did was right, but he didn't understand why it was so hard, too. It was the first time he'd ever realized that the right thing wasn't always the easiest.

"You're the bravest." He told his dad.

His dad smiled even though his eyes were red and watery. He kissed Bristol's forehead and lingered for a moment, and even though he hadn't said a word, Bristol heard _I love you_ before he pulled back. He moved his head back to his father's shoulder and passed him the tablet.

"I can't beat this level," he lied. "Can you help?"

His dad's fingers were shaky at first as he touched the screen, but when he won the level, he seemed much better. Bristol thanked him profusely. His dad and mum always seemed happiest when they were helping their kids, and that stayed the same even then.

* * *

The Doctor surprised Bristol on the way home by stopping in front of a kebab hut. Bristol looked at him in surprise.

"But I thought you didn't want me eating kebabs?!"

The Doctor shrugged. "I'm remembering that there are far worst things out there."

Bristol slammed his stomach against the gear shift as he hurried to hug his father.

"Thank you!" He cried.

They parked the car and walked around as they ate. Bristol was halfway done with his when he put words to the way he'd been feeling all afternoon and ever since his dad was injured. He looked up at his father.

"Dad?" His dad looked down at him questioningly. "I'm really, really glad that you're my dad. And I wouldn't ever want you to go away. Not even for a little while."

The Doctor beamed brightly. He reached down and wrapped his arm around Bristol's shoulders, dragging him to his side for a brief hug. He sounded a bit choked up as he replied.

"Well, I'm really, really glad that you're my son. And that you feel that way."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked. Bristol thought about Anthony's bad parents, about Annalise's mean mum. He thought about his Grandpa and how nice he was. He thought about how Tara called to check on the Doctor any time he was sick. He wondered why some people got really nice parents and some didn't. Mostly, he wondered if he knew anyone else with really mean parents, maybe some kids at school. He wished everyone had parents like his.

And then he thought of something he never had before.

"Was your mum nice like my mum?" He asked his dad curiously.

His dad looked down at him and frowned. His pace slowed some.

"No." He admitted. "She wasn't."

"Oh." Bristol said. He looked down at his feet. "Did someone take you away from her? Because she was mean?"

"No. But they probably should have." He said.

Bristol lifted his hand and sought out his dad's. The Doctor wrapped his hand around his son's searching one.

"Was your dad mean?" He wondered.

"The meanest, when he wanted to be." The Doctor affirmed. "My mum wasn't really that mean, from what I remember. She was indifferent. She just didn't care about Uncle Ten or me. Which is sometimes just as bad as being mean."

Bristol frowned. "How was your dad mean? Did he hit you in the head?"

"No. He never hit me. But he hit my mother a lot. He just ignored me and screamed and said very mean things." His dad told him honestly.

Bristol looked up at his father in shock.

"He _hit _your _mum?" _He breathed. "Didn't he love her?"

The Doctor stopped long enough to toss his trash into a bin. Bristol passed him his as well. He answered his son's question as they turned to head back towards the car.

"He was obsessed with her. It made him do mad things." He responded.

Bristol tried to imagine his father hitting his mum, because he truly couldn't comprehend the situation, but even attempting to imagine it made his stomach queasy. He realized that the bad guys in that horror film could very easy live in people's houses. One lived in his dad's, even. It made him feel afraid.

"That's scary." He whispered. "I'm glad you aren't like your dad."

His dad stopped walking, much to the annoyance of the people behind him. He pulled them to the side and kneeled, so he was face to face with his son. He gripped his arms gently.

"Me too, Bristol." He said honestly.

Bristol smiled. "I want to be just like you when I grow up."

His dad smiled softly. He ruffled Bristol's short hair and rose to his feet.

"Let's go home and see your mum and siblings," he said.

He thought about all the bad people as they drove home. He strung them up in his mind, like clothes on a line. There was the man who stabbed his dad, there were his dad's parents, the crazy lady who hurt her daughter, the scary man in the horror film. But when Bristol ran though his home and fell into his mother's warm hug, he knew it didn't matter. The good always won in the end. He watched his dad hug his mother and he smiled. His parents were proof of that.


	2. Saviors

**A/n: **This chapter heavily references the cut chapter "mistakes, bloody knuckles, and the love of a parent" (which can be found by following the link on my FF profile- it's the third chapter listed). It's not required reading as this chapter somewhat covers the events of that chapter-just from a different POV- but it does answer some questions this chapter might bring up. Thank you to all who are reading! A much lighter chapter will follow this one :)

* * *

_PART 2/8 | LOTTIE | RATED T_

**Saviors**

* * *

If pressed for an answer, she'd say her favorite memory with her parents was the night after she'd won her first football match. She was six years old and her dad lifted her into the air and swung her around as her mum beamed. She left the field sitting high on her father's shoulders, her heart huge in her chest, and she remembered the feeling of her mum's hand closed gently around her ankle, just in case she slipped.

"You're my girl," her dad told her happily. "My amazing football girl!" He spun in place and Lottie tipped her head back and watched the sun spin around and around, like a searing ball in the sky just waiting to be kicked. She felt so happy that she almost felt like she could have extended her knee up and moved it. She leaned to the right and set both her hands atop her mum's head after that, giggling as she tried to overcome her dizziness.

"I'm so proud of you!" Her mum exclaimed. She leaned her head back and reached up, taking her daughter's muddy hands in her own. She stood on her tiptoes so she could press a kiss to each dirt-caked palm. "You were the best player on the team!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Yes! The very best one!" Her mother told her.

"You're just sayin' that." Lottie accused, but she was grinning slyly anyway.

"No, she's right, Lot," her dad affirmed. "You were the best."

She leaned over top of his head and peered down, trying to meet his eyes. He laughed and quickly gripped her legs tightly.

"Careful! You might fall!"

"Mummy will catch me." She replied, without a second's hesitation. And it didn't matter that her mum still only had a grip on her ankle. It didn't matter that there was no logical way she could have saved her daughter by that casual of a grip had she gone toppling over her dad's head. She just knew, from the top of her sweaty head down to her mud-caked shoes, that her mum would find a way.

It was one of her happiest memories. But she came to learn that your happiest memories often weren't the ones that meant the most. A person was made up of all the things they did and all the things they said-but there had to have been some reflective weight to the way they acted when everything turned sour.

Her mum and dad loved and supported her when she was a happy child, and that was important.

But more importantly, they loved and supported her when she was a broken adult at her very lowest. And not many parents could say the same.

* * *

She was a child when she learned that nothing could wear down love.

She often couldn't remember the exact moment she learned things about life, but she remember vividly the time she fully understood that love meant forever and forever meant prevailing. In her mind she saw her mother as she was now (even though she knew she hadn't always been fifty), and her dad was greying with wrinkled eyes (although she knew he hadn't always been), and they were arguing quietly behind a closed door about something Bristol had done at school and her mum's response to it. It was the first time she recalled them ever disagreeing, and she remembered feeling scared and intrigued, a bit like she felt when they drove past wrecks on the motorway. She tiptoed out of her room and sat on the new carpet, her head heavy against the hallway wall, and she breathed around a mad, beating heart as their voices rose and crested. _I'm furious with you_, her dad said, and Lottie thought he might cry. _Well I'm not even _talking _to you!_, her mum snapped back.

Lottie bit her nail until it tore. She tried to make sense of this new facet to her parents' relationship, to their life as a family, but she couldn't make it fit with the way they'd been just that morning: happy and whole, holding hands over breakfast. And then she heard intertwined peals of hesitant laughter, and as it rose in volume gradually, she found herself laughing along out of relief.

_I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so angry, _her dad said (in his smiling voice). Lottie remembered feeling better once she could picture him smiling.

_I'm sorry, too. Let's talk about it more in the morning, okay?_, her mum replied, and that was that. It was over, and Lottie as rose to her feet, and she knew it was because they loved each other.

* * *

It wasn't their fault, but she took their good example to heart.

She honestly and truly believed that love could save anything.

She didn't quite know what to do when she realized that wasn't always true.

* * *

When she made her first mistake, she alienated herself from her parents as much as she could without arousing suspicion. It wasn't that she worried they wouldn't love her anymore. It was just that she couldn't stand to see images of who they thought she was in their eyes.

The club manager touched her like he owned her, like he could do whatever he wanted and she'd have no say in it at all, and maybe he was right. She cried later that night and tried to remember what it felt like to breathe without stones on her chest. She sat in the bathtub in her tiny flat and gasped into her knees, feeling nausea swell inside her like unswimmable waves. She thought she might drown. _But this is not drowning. This is what you wanted_, she told herself. She repeated it until she couldn't anymore.

(Later, when she phoned a new friend on the team, she was told that she would swim just fine. It was part of it, the girl said. It's okay. She compared the feeling to homesickness at the start of a holiday. Lottie told herself she believed her, and when she looked at her damp face in the mirror, she said she was closer than ever before to achieving her dreams.

She'd never known she was such a liar.)

* * *

"_Daddy," she dreamt of saying. "Daddy, I abandoned myself." _

In her dream he clasped his hands, and just like that, she was five years old again. He lifted her up into his arms and she watched as every stone was drawn from her lungs. They evaporated as easily as water. She inhaled the dry air and she said (in her smiling voice): _That's what I wanted, Daddy. Don't go. I don't want to be on my own. _

Her mum tucked her into bed and Lottie did not complain, did not insist she was too old for it. As her mother tucked the duvet around her, she realized that that was the only thing keeping her down. _Stay, _she pleaded. _Let me stay like this forever. _

Her mother's fingertips sprinkled multi-colored glitter onto the sheets. She never grew again.

* * *

She avoided them for two weeks after he first laid hands on her. She stayed away with claims of late practices and early private training sessions, and they believed her, because they had no reason not to. She was supposed to meet up with them on a Sunday, but he squeezed too tightly on a Saturday, and she didn't show up. She was ashamed of the purpling hue on her skin. She was ashamed of her neck and her wrists. She was ashamed to call her body hers.

She slept past their meet-up time and woke up to the sound of her ringing phone. They were concerned and waiting at the house for her. She didn't even have to try to make herself sound sick; the lies fell from her mouth naturally.

"I'll come 'round with some medicine," her dad said immediately.

"I'll bring some soup," her mum added.

"No," Lottie pleaded, and she heard her own voice break in two. She saw herself as a ten year old, clutching her broken leg as she tried to make it through the rest of the football match. It hurt more than that. "I don't want to make you sick. I need my rest. I'll see you next weekend, I promise."

She was unmarked and smiling when she finally saw them again. When they hugged her, she jumped, and she laughed it off with claims of sleep deprivation. She did not tell them that it was the first time she'd felt comforted by someone's touch in over a month.

* * *

She stopped running with Charlie in the mornings. She stopped getting drinks with her cousin Jenny on Fridays. She forgot to call her best friend from college back for two weeks.

She fell into the team and it swallowed her whole.

"I'm his favorite," Maria boasted. They were all in the locker room in various states of undress. "I'm secured for at least five years. I've got a salary increase. I'm going to get an article written about me."

There was immediate backlash to her comments. Every girl said she was his favorite, said _she _was getting an increase. Lottie sat on the wooden bench because her knees were wobbly and she didn't want them to know that. They were all getting used and they were all getting played, but she felt she was too far in it. She felt helpless.

"What about you, Lottie?" Noni called. Lottie turned and looked up at her. "What's going on with you and him? Is he happy with you?"

She felt like she could have screamed. She rubbed her bare thighs and inhaled deeply.

"Yeah," she finally said. "He's happy with me."

Noni beamed. "Brilliant. I'm glad you're sticking around."

No one had ever asked her if she was happy with it. No one noticed or cared that she was an honestly brilliant player. No one considered that she had so much more to offer than what he was invested in taking. She was being deconstructed each and every day.

* * *

She knew that something was wrong with what was going on, but she felt the lines were too blurred to even begin to decipher it. She'd never told him she didn't want to. She'd never told him no, and she kept going back, time after time. What was stopping her from walking away? She could have said to hell with it. She could have quit. Why didn't she?

She didn't know, and after a year, she found herself asking a new teammate a familiar question.

_Is he happy with you_?

As if it mattered.

_I'm not sure this is what I want_, the new girl said.

Lottie didn't even recall saying the words after she had.

_It's like the first wave of homesickness when you're on holiday. This'll all start to feel like home._

* * *

If it was her home, it was abusive and dank.

It took every ounce of effort to keep her parents in the dark.

She told herself it was fine. She made herself believe that he was saying he loved her when he grunted things she couldn't quite make out. When he told her she was great, she pretended he meant at something that mattered. Sometimes when she saw his wife, she felt jealous. She craved his approval more and more as each day went by. The more he yelled and threatened, the more she bent.

It was funny. The crueler he was, the kinder his compliments seemed. She stopped looking at the big picture.

When he sent a girl away who refused to play his games, Lottie grew to hate her. _What a self-important bitch_, she thought. The thoughts were toxic and backwards and they made her head ache. _Who does she think she is?_

But later, halfway between sleep and consciousness, the girl she used to be crawled from her scarred shell. She told her she only hated that girl because she'd done what Lottie had always wanted to. She'd gotten away. She'd kept herself.

She had that same reoccurring dream each night. She cried, her dad turned back time, and then her mother froze it. She was always shivering when she woke up.

* * *

Her sister came to visit her before she left for Wales, and once she was in the flat, Lottie wanted to beg her to stay.

She'd planned on shooing her out the door quickly, because she was supposed to go over to Oliver's, but then her sister had her _laughing_, and Lottie couldn't remember the last time she'd genuinely laughed. They ate fish fingers and worked their way through a bottle of wine, and it wasn't until they were draped tiredly over the sofa that Ellabell asked.

"What's wrong?"

Lottie turned over onto her back and stared down at her sister, lying halfway over her legs, her cheek pressed against the back sofa cushion. She felt her throat narrow as the lies began to work their way up, but then her sister touched her leg.

"You aren't acting like yourself."

She blinked and blinked, but the image of her sister blurred anyway. Light brown hair turning into a dim halo around her pale face, green eyes turning into fuzzy orbs, strong facial structure slowly distorting into nothing. When she realized her eyes were making her sister disappear, she panicked.

"Don't tell Mum and Dad. Please." She started, and once Ellabell sat up and nodded, she wept through her words.

Her sister was impossibly tall and thin, with graceful lines and a floating walk, but when she jumped up and declared she'd kill Oliver Santon, Lottie almost believed her. She imagined her sister beating him over the head with her pointe shoes for a moment. She saw his teeth spring free from the root. And then she remembered how he destroyed any woman he saw, and all she wanted was to keep her little sister as far away from him as possible.

"I'm ringing Bristol," Ellie decided. Her voice was shaking and Lottie was scared. If her sister had reacted indifferently, that would have shown her that it was no big deal. But she was reacting just as Lottie had feared. "He'll know what to do. I'm going to get him down here."

Lottie pictured her brother, with his broad shoulders and protective tendencies. She reached up and grabbed onto Ellabell's arm as she reached for her phone.

"No, please." She begged. "Don't involve him. He's in university. Please, I don't want him to get in trouble."

_He's my little brother_, she wanted to say. _I've ruined enough. Please, I've ruined enough. _

Ellabell didn't call. And she didn't even lecture too much, something Lottie was grateful for. But she did tell her something she didn't want to hear, right before she left.

"You need to tell Mum and Dad. They'll understand. They can help you."

Perhaps Lottie was afraid to realize Ellie was wrong. She'd rather suffer than go to her parents in desperation, only to realize their ability to mend it all had ended once she'd grown up. And she felt old. Older than she ever had before.

* * *

She wasn't trying to break any records.

It'd all started twenty minutes before their match against Chelsea. She'd been rubbing sunscreen into her skin, and then he was in front of her, before she even heard him enter the locker room.

"Where were you Thursday night?" He asked.

Lottie faltered. Her hand slipped from her arm and hung loosely at her side. She could feel the puddle of sunscreen on her palm slowly dripping down.

"I was with my sister. She came by before she left for—"

He walked up, so he was close enough to her that Lottie could smell the coffee on his breath. His eyes bore into hers.

"Don't make me start looking at some of the brilliant players out there who would do anything for your position."

When Lottie began to wilt and sink down into the floor, he lifted his hand to cradle her cheek. He smiled at her.

"Come on, Char. I know you're better than this." He murmured.

She was just so glad he wasn't angry. She was so glad he wasn't yelling. She leaned her face into his touch, but he yanked his hand free a moment after that.

"You'll have to make it up to me. I want you to play like you're trying to save someone's life. Like a little girl's on the field, and if you intercept over four shots, she lives. If you intercept less, she dies."

"How does she die?" Noni called over, curiously.

The words pooled in Lottie's mouth as Oliver caressed her shoulder.

_Like this. Quietly and hidden, and no one cares._

* * *

She played like the little girl was her.

She imagined her six-year-old self standing on the sidelines, hand in hand with her parents, her eyes alit with excitement. She remembered going to games with them as a little girl. She remembered thinking the players were magical and wanting to be just like them.

She'd gotten what she wanted, hadn't she? She watched that little girl in her mind's eye and she felt, for a moment, that she was actually reading the other player's minds. They went left, she was already there. They circled around and she was waiting.

She played harder than she ever had, even when she was a child, and part of her was hoping she'd permanently injure herself. She locked legs with another player after her fifth intercepted shot, and she felt something in her calf pull and tear, and the pain was so intense she almost got sick all over the field. The field medic rushed over, but she was back to her feet, pacing with her teeth gritted as she insisted she was fine.

She could have left the field. By Oliver's rules, the little girl had been saved. But Lottie knew she'd need to do more than just that to make him forgive her absence.

She was shaking with pain and exhaustion by the seventh. She lost count after that, she just knew she was extremely close to breaking the record, even if she couldn't even remember what that record was for a moment. She played the game like it was a test that determined her future, and perhaps it was.

When it was finally over, she collapsed down onto the field where she stood, her face pressing her thighs as she began weeping. Her teammates thought it was out of happiness and jumped onto her, shrieking with joy and excitement. Her mum ran down the field so quickly she even by-passed Lottie's dad, who had significantly longer legs. She shooed the other girls out of the way and fell down onto her knees bedside her daughter, her hand going to her back immediately.

"How bad?" She asked.

Lottie couldn't lift her face, because then her mum might know she wasn't really crying because of the pain.

"Bad," she whispered, and then her dad was there. He pulled her carefully to her feet and looped her arm around his shoulders, so he could carry most her weight for her. Lottie locked eyes with the medic, and then she glanced up at her dad.

"I don't want him to see me. I want to go home. I want you to look at it." She gasped.

She just wanted to go home. It didn't have anything to do with not trusting the field medic. But her dad believed that easily enough.

"Okay, love." He reassured her. He looked towards her mother. "Clara, will you go tell him that I'm a doctor and we're taking her home?"

Lottie lay atop their bed when they got home, like she used to do when she was ill as a young girl. No matter how much she'd searched, she never could find a bed as comfortable as theirs. Her dad iced her calf—that was now swollen and beginning to bruise—and her mum drifted between the room and the rest of the house, popping in every few minutes to check on her. Lottie hadn't had anyone take care of her in such a long time that it left her feeling strange, like she'd just gone back in time like she'd wanted after all.

Her dad wrapped the strained muscle tightly and then sat down beside her. He brushed her sweaty hair out of her face and gave her the brightest, proudest smile she'd ever seen.

"You were brilliant, Lottie. You broke the record by a long shot. Everyone was amazed." He said. He looked a little choked up as he continued. "I just kept saying _that's my little girl_!, and everyone was so jealous."

Lottie leaned her head against his shoulder. She decided the pain was worth it, if only to see her dad so happy.

She ground her teeth through the long recovery, but Oliver was oddly patient with her after her record-breaking game. He paid her special mind and doted on her, and all the other girls were jealous. Lottie remembered feeling secure.

* * *

It would have gone on for years. That much she was sure of.

She knew enough about pregnancy from watching her mother go through it so many times. It only took two missed periods and one round of morning sickness to feel her gut fill with lead.

Later, sitting on the toilet in a pub with a pregnancy stick in hand, she realized it wasn't lead at all. It was a baby.

She cried herself to sleep, and in the morning, she phoned Oliver. She was shaking as she told him, because she truly had no idea how he might react.

"I'm sorry_." _ She said. As if it was her fault.

"I'm busy right now, Char. Take care of it." He said tiredly. She could hear someone giggling in the background.

She knew what he meant. She felt her old self slip through her fingers.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then you can get the fuck off my team, babe."

It wasn't that she even wanted to stay on the team anymore. She had long grown to hate the sport she used to love. It was just that, if she were kicked off, all of her suffering would have been for naught.

* * *

Ellie was firm.

"You have to go to them now, Lottie. Either you do it, or I will."

She considered it fate when her mother called only moments later to invite her over for dinner.

* * *

When the words finally spilled from her lips, they tasted salty.

She said all the things she'd dreamt of saying for so long. _I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry, Mummy. I'm sorry. _But they didn't look at her the way she felt, like she was some disgusting daughter, some shameful slag. They looked at her like she was their little girl who'd been broken, with pain and protectiveness.

And disappointment. But she'd expected that. When she admitted to her mother that she hadn't been using protection beyond her birth control for a while, she was horrified. Lottie watched her heart break, and then she watched her worry turn into anger.

"You never, ever listen to a man when he says that." Clara told her seriously. She reached over and grabbed Lottie's arm, peering at her desperately. "Do you hear me?! Never! I don't care what he says to you. I don't give a fuck what he tells you, okay? You never let him call the shots about your body. When a man tells you it doesn't matter, he's telling you that you don't matter, that your health doesn't matter, that your freedom doesn't matter. You get up and you leave the room when he says that. You don't sleep with him! You don't continue to do so! Lottie, I'm so…I'm so disappointed. I thought you knew better than that. I taught you better than that. And your manager? Jesus, Charlotte. I just don't even know what to say to you right now. A spot on a football team isn't worth this. It isn't worth doing that. It's not worth your body, your life. God. I'm so…sad.

Lottie wept and she apologized. She knew her mother was right; she had known better. She wanted to say _I wasn't me anymore, Mum. He turns me into someone I'm not. _But couldn't. She watched her mother begin to cry. And then her dad rose to his feet and turned to leave the room. Lottie panicked.

"Don't go. Please, Dad. Don't go. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen," Lottie gasped. She felt it all spilling from her, sloshing out and filling the spaces between them. "I didn't know what to do! I just wanted to be the best! I was working hard to be the best!"

She gasped around her tears, and she couldn't breathe properly until he walked towards her, because it was only then that she knew he wasn't walking out. He kissed the top of her head and kneeled down in front of her, his eyes locked on hers. His were green and ancient. They were the shade of her childhood.

"Don't you know it yet, Lolly? You're the best already." He told her.

And she cried, because how could she have ever let herself believe Oliver? How could she have destroyed herself in her quest to be better? She'd always been enough in her parents' eyes.

Her father stroked her cheek and held her face gently, his eyes swelling with tears and deep with pain. "I'm sad. I'm disappointed. But I'm not angry with you."

In the midst of Lottie's relief, she heard her mother grow panicked.

"Don't do it. Don't go find him."

Lottie argued and listened as her mother did the same, but her father was unreachable. She was transported for a moment back to primary school, when he'd gotten into a fight with a bully's father. He was standing the same now as he had then, with his shoulders locked and his fists clenched. When he stormed out, her mother streaked after him, and Lottie was left on their bed, gasping around her panic. She cried herself to sleep.

* * *

For a moment after she first woke, she genuinely wished her father had killed him. But she soon realized that would only make matters worse.

She woke up to her mother lying beside her, her hand on her upper arm. Her mother's eyes were damp.

"I'm so sorry, love," she whispered. She reached forward and gathered Lottie into her arms, and as Lottie pressed her nose against her mother's collarbone, she felt the pages of her life flipping backwards. She was small again and her mummy would make everything better, because she always did. She gripped her tightly. "I never should have yelled at you. I should never have blamed you. I'm so, so sorry. I will regret it for the rest of my life."

Lottie blinked away the tears that seemed neverending.

"I should have said no. I don't know why I went along with it. I don't know why I did. I was confused and scared."

Her mum grasped her shoulders and gently pulled her back. Her brown eyes bore worriedly into her daughter's.

"Have you been checked for STIs? If he was sleeping with so many people…" she trailed off.

That opened an entirely new set of anxieties. He'd told her she was the only one he didn't use condoms with, but he'd told her a lot of things. She hadn't questioned it too much because, frankly put, she'd been too afraid to set him off.

"No. I'm scared to." She admitted. Her chest was heavy with anxiety. "I'm afraid of what I'll find out."

Her mum pulled her back into her arms. She smoothed her daughter's hair back.

"Don't be scared. I'll go with you." She told her. She heard her mother's voice weaving. "I'll be there from this point on, no matter what happens. I promise."

When her father came in later with bruised knuckles, he told her that there was truly nothing she could do to lose his love. She remembered who she was for a moment. Sitting between her parents, she was Lottie again. And nothing had ever felt better.

* * *

Her mother left the house with her hair damp and curly and wrapped her arm tight around her daughter's shoulders on the ride to the check-up. Lottie leaned her head against her shoulder and wished she was as much like her mother inside as she was out. Her mother would have never let a man treat her like that. Her mother would have never got herself into that kind of situation.

Her mother went back into the examining room with her and sat at the chair by her side throughout the entire thing, making calming conversation. Lottie held her mum's hand when they drew her blood, like she used to whenever she had to get vaccinations. And when the results were back, it was her mother who squeezed her hand in relief when they were all negative.

"I don't want to ruin your relief," she told her carefully, once they were back on the bus. "But you've still got to decide what to do about the other issue."

Lottie stared forward. She clenched her hands so she wouldn't bite her nails.

"I want to do what you said."

Her mum touched her leg. Lottie turned and looked down at her.

"That's what you want?" She made sure.

Lottie nodded. "Yeah."

"Then we'll take care of it."

* * *

She had a check-up the week before the scheduled procedure, and even though she'd opted out of looking at the fetus, she still heard the heartbeat.

It didn't mean much to her at the time. She knew the potential infant inside of herself wouldn't know or feel anything when it came time to get it done, but it did make Lottie curious. Pregnancy hadn't ever seemed mysterious to her growing up, because she had so many memories of her mum going through it like it was some commonplace thing, but it was quite different to be the pregnant one instead of an observer.

She looked down at her bare skin as she soaked in a bath. She pressed her palm between her hipbones and tried to feel for that rhythm, tried to make sense of the fact that there was something growing inside of herself. It was unsettling, but the more she stared down at her soapy abdomen and thought, the more it became strangely comforting.

If anything proved her loneliness, she knew it had to be that. She tucked her knees up in her bed and realized, if she had this child, she'd never be alone again. And perhaps she could erase all the mistakes she'd made by doing some good in the world. What could be better than loving someone unconditionally?

Of course, there was a good chance she'd be shit at it.

She almost cried.

* * *

"If I had it, I'd call it Elsie."

Her cousin looked up at those words, her eyes wide. Her hand slipped from the wet bottle and fell into her lap.

"Really?" She asked. Her voice was a bit too high to be as casual as she'd tried to make it. "You've thought about names when your abortion's in two days?"

Lottie swirled the straw around in her lemonade. She couldn't meet her cousin's eyes and her face felt hot.

"Maybe. I dunno. I didn't really set out to think about it. It just…occurred to me." She muttered.

Jenny picked at the beer label nervously.

"How do you even know it'd be a girl?"

Lottie faltered.

"Dunno," she repeated, this time uneasily. "I guess I don't. I just…thought of it." The burning traveled to her ears and she tried to shrug off her comment. "I don't really know what I'm going on about. Nevermind."

Jenny fiddled with her blonde ponytail as she observed her cousin.

"Lottie," she started, and Lottie could tell from her tone that this was heading towards a lecture. She set her elbows on the tabletop and buried her face into her hands.

"No, I know," she muttered. She rubbed her face tiredly. "I know. I'm being stupid. I need to think clearly about this, logically."

Her cousin nodded.

"Yes, you do. You're twenty-two. I'm two years older than you and I can't even _imagine _having a baby yet."

But that was the problem.

Lottie could imagine it.

* * *

She supposed she wasn't surprised when Charlie turned up at her door. She hadn't been running with her in months. Lottie guessed her mother had probably told her friend all about why, too.

"I'm the cool aunt-that's-not-really-an-aunt," Charlie greeted defensively. "How come I'm the last person to know about this?"

Lottie kept her eyes on Charlie's thin, blonde hair as she spoke, because she didn't want to see her expression twist. When she finished telling her everything (and she had said everything), she looked to her eyes hesitantly.

"I'm guessing you sugar-coated this for your mum, because if you had told her this, his body would be in a ditch somewhere."

Lottie blinked rapidly. She dug her thumbnail down into the cuticle of her other thumb.

"I didn't sugar-coat. I told her the facts." She defended nervously. She didn't like the idea of lying to her mother, even if it was a lie of omission.

Charlie looked uncertain. "You told her how sad you were? You told her what the others girls said to you? You told her some of the things he said to you?"

"No, but…it was implied." When Charlie looked skeptical, Lottie rushed to defend herself further. "We were all so upset! I didn't—no, I couldn't upset them more. I told them what I needed to."

Charlie hummed noncommittally. Lottie shifted uneasily.

"Well, I wouldn't have told you if I wanted another disapproving look!" She exclaimed, a bit more shrilly than she wanted. "If I wanted to be judged, I would have told a priest! Or Tara!"

Charlie quickly reached over and set a hand on her shoulder. Her light eyebrows furrowed.

"No, I'm not judging you! I'm…worried. Lottie, what he did to you…you understand, don't you? He used you. He was abusing you."

Lottie went up in arms, because if there was one thing she'd never wanted to be, it was a victim.

"No. I let it happen."

Charlie lifted an eyebrow. Lottie glared fiercely.

"I did! I let him! I didn't say no, I didn't tell him to fuck off, I just…shut my mouth and went along with it!"

"Lottie…"

Lottie jumped up from the sofa and crossed her arms over her chest.

"_Please_ don't say my name like that! I'm in control of myself, okay?! I'm in charge of my own self!" She all by yelped. She realized too late that she sounded a bit too afraid.

"Okay, of course," Charlie said quickly, softly. "Of course you are."

Lottie sank back down onto the sofa, but it was on the edge, and her posture was tense. She rubbed her thighs nervously.

"Basically, I've fucked my life up. And I need to take full responsibility for that, because at least I can punish myself." Lottie muttered.

Charlie had always been awkward when it came to emotional moments. Lottie could sense her anxiety as she struggled to figure out what to say.

"You haven't fucked it up. Soon you'll be back playing again, and it'll all be a bad memory." She comforted.

"Or maybe I won't."

Charlie looked up in confusion.

"What? Are you…are you going to quit football?"

Lottie's heart rate spiked and her palms were beginning to sweat. She hadn't voiced it aloud yet, and she was terrified to, because once she did she was afraid that meant it was set in stone. But she couldn't hold it back any longer.

"Maybe I won't get an abortion. Maybe…I want to keep her. But maybe I'm too scared to let myself do that."

"Oh," Charlie breathed. She was quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time, and when Lottie glanced up at her from the corner of her eye, she was surprised to find her looking at her with an odd expression. Nostalgia, perhaps.

"Oh." She repeated, but this time she didn't sound surprised at all. "Sometimes you remind me so much of your dad, but then other times…it's like I'm talking to your mum."

Lottie smiled briefly at that, but soon she remembered all the ways she wasn't like her mother, and she felt her heart sinking. All she'd ever wanted was to be just like her mum.

"Have you talked to your mum about this yet?" Charlie asked tentatively.

Lottie shook her head guiltily.

"No. But to be fair, it's a recent development."

"Ah. Well, Lottie…I mean, I'm not going to tell you all the reasons it's irresponsible, because I'm sure Smithy will cover that extensively when—or if—you tell him, but I do want to make sure it's what you want. That Oliver bloke isn't pressuring you to keep it, is he?"

"No. The opposite, if anything." She assured her.

Charlie nodded. "Okay. So I'm going to tell you the same thing I told your mum about twenty-three years ago, when she couldn't decide whether she wanted to have children or not. And that's to figure out what it is that _you_ want and go for it without fear."

Lottie didn't want to cry in front of Charlie. She fought against it bravely. Her palms seared as she dug her fingernails into them.

"But what if I disappoint my parents?" She breathed. Her voice weaved. "What if I do want to keep her, really badly? What if I let them down?"

Charlie smiled sadly. She reached up and patted Lottie's cheek briefly.

"It's your life. It isn't your parents', or your siblings', or your cousin's, or mine. It's yours. In the end, your parents will support whatever you want to do. I'm surprised you're even doubting that."

* * *

In the end, Charlie was right (not that Lottie would have told her that).

They worried, and Lottie was sure they thought it a mistake, but they loved her all the same despite. They moved her back home for the duration of the pregnancy and Lottie fell in love with her new job at a bookshop. She made new friends and felt herself growing alongside her baby. Each new inch the baby grew was another mile in confidence for Lottie. She drank tea with her mum every morning before they both went to work; she met Jenny for lunch three times a week; Charlie agreed to go on brisk walks in place of their usual run; she went out to the pub with her new friends from work every Friday; and she always ended the day with a mug of chamomile with her father. The routine became wonderful and Lottie was certain she'd never been happier, and because of that, her parents' worry eased.

She supposed Oliver must have seen the new glow to her person, too. Or at least heard about it from someone. Because he made a surprise appearance in her bookshop around five months after her dad went off on him.

Her heart felt strange when she saw him. It wanted to rise and sink at the same moment, and the resulting effect was a sickening bob that made her feel nauseated. She met his eyes and watched as he veered towards her. Her hands automatically settled on her stomach protectively as he came to the front of the counter. She'd never noticed before how pinched his face seemed, how thin his hair was. She could feel the muscles in her back tensing up.

She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to stumble back. "Is there something I can help you with?"

His palms smacked down onto the edge of the counter. Lottie watched as he leaned forward, her heart picking up pace so quickly that she felt the child inside her twisting with anxiety. She took a half-step back and watched him with wide, fearful eyes.

"I've called you_ four fucking times_," he breathed. He smacked his hands down again, this time angrily. "Four fucking times!"

Lottie cringed back a bit too quickly. She lost her balance and tilted back into the wall behind her. She crashed into the metal shelf and felt a splitting pain between her shoulder blades. She'd only just gasped and reached behind her when he continued.

"I got all your teammates to ring you! I went to your flat! Where the hell have you been?! What are you fucking looking at?! Where were you?" He demanded. He'd been blind by anger before, but as he waited for her to respond, his eyes traced down her body. "You're a goddamn liar. You've got _my _baby inside you, and you're fucking—ANSWER ME!"

Lottie was shaking. She felt tears building heavily behind her eyes. She blinked rapidly against the pressure.

"I moved back home," she finally said. She could feel her shirt sticking to her bloody back. "I got a new number."

He clenched his fists.

"I was looking for you. You could have told me." He seethed.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you." Lottie reminded him feebly. "My parents told you to stay away from me."

He'd never hit her before, but as he lunged forward, Lottie was sure he was about to change that.

"Your parents are brainwashing you! They're turning you against me!" He thundered. The counter had impeded his movement towards her, but he was still leaning over it, his chest heaving. He was out of control. She knew what it looked like; she'd seen it enough.

She was about to yell for help, but as soon as she shifted towards the inventory door, he took a step back. He bowed his head.

"I'm sorry." He said. His voice was gentle, quiet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled like that. Come here. I'm sorry. Don't overreact."

Lottie didn't move. She could only imagine how she must have looked: back against the wall, hands gripping her stomach, chest heaving. He took small, hesitant steps around the counter. Lottie flinched back into the wall as he reached up to touch her face.

"Look at you," he breathed. His eyes swept over her face tenderly. "So beautiful. So gorgeous. I'm sorry I scared you. Come here."

He cupped her shoulders and dragged her into his embrace. She was stiff and didn't hug him back. When his hand settled over the scratch she'd made on the metal shelf, he pulled back from her in surprise.

"You've hurt yourself," he breathed, his eyes soft with concern. "You're bleeding. Let me see it."

Lottie jumped back as soon as his hands touched the material of her shirt.

"No." She said. Her hands were shaking as she turned her back to him. She fiddled uselessly with some files atop the counter. "No. I'm fine."

He tsked. "Babe, you're hurt. How are you going to bandage that up? You can't even reach it." His voice tucked down. She swallowed hard when he reached up to brush her hair back. "I've missed you so much. I've left my wife, you know. I couldn't stop thinking about you. And now that I've found you and I see you've got our child? I'm…Char, I'm so happy I could cry. I've got a house for us. I want us to be a family."

Lottie squeezed her eyes as her tears built, hot and demanding. They slid down her cheeks despite her efforts. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, she wanted him to go away…but she wanted her little girl to have a childhood like she'd had, too. She wanted her to have a dad who loved her, a dad who'd do anything in the world for her. She wanted that so much. She stroked her hand over her stomach as her daughter shifted inside of her and she breathed shallowly through her mouth. She'd decided a long time ago that she could do anything in the world for her baby, and she would. After all, there was nothing in the world that love couldn't mend. She loved her daughter so much. She loved her so much that she could make anything work. Even a relationship with Oliver.

She thought so, anyway.

* * *

She fought with her dad for the first time in her life when she told her parents she was going back to Oliver.

They'd had arguments here and there, but they'd never fought to the point of tears. The argument started with: _I'm so worried about you, please, Lottie_, it grew to: _I'm not trying to control your life! I'm trying to save you pain!_, and then ended with: _I want my baby to have a dad! I want her to have a dad like I do!_

In the end, they couldn't do much about her decision. Everyone in her life criticized it, but it was hers. She was just trying to do her best.

* * *

Some days it was:_ I love you, Char. You're so pretty today. Let me get the door for you. Do you need anything from the supermarket?_

And some days it wasn't. But those days were always tucked so carefully behind the good days that Lottie told herself they didn't matter in the long run.

She heard the things he said on the bad days right before she fell asleep, no matter how nice he'd been that day. She tossed and turned in their shared bed, her hands splayed across her belly, her heart breaking apart in wild waves. _It's just the way things are_, she told herself. _You've dealt with worse_.

The problem was that she had no idea how bad things could truly get. She lied to her parents, who still hated the idea of her with him. She was cheerful every time she talked with them or saw them. When she told them she was getting married to Oliver, a day before they were going to, she insisted it was what she truly wanted. She didn't mention the fight they'd had the night before, or that she'd spent the majority of the night crying in the bathtub, only to emerge with the sun to say _all right. _

She got used to saying all right.

_All right. Just please don't yell anymore. _

_All right. Just please—no, nevermind. _

(All right. Just please, can you tell me where you've put Lottie? I've lost her again. I think you've taken her.)

* * *

Her old reoccurring dream was replaced with another. Instead of turning back time every night in her dreams, she died.

In her dream, she was always lying on the pavement outside the Sainsbury's by the first house she'd lived in as a child, her face caved in from a blow from a hatchet. Her nose was shattered. She couldn't breathe without inhaling mouthfuls of blood and she was dizzy, so dizzy she had to fight to keep her eyes open.

Each time someone walked past her, they glanced down, and she had ten seconds to speak. Ten seconds to ask for help. But she didn't say a word.

Finally, near the end of the dream, she spotted the backs of two achingly familiar people. She tried to sit up, but her neck didn't work anymore. When she reached up to touch it, her fingers sank into gaping slices. She lifted her saturated hand into the air and waved it like a red flag.

"Please," she choked. "Please. I can feel myself dying."

Her parents spun around. Their faces crumpled and their eyes streamed with tears. They sprinted towards her, and they were always just a few steps when she died. It was like a light fizzing out—soft, sudden, and complete.

When she woke up, it took her hours to feel real again.

* * *

"You look tired," her mum told her in concern. She reached forward and swept her thumbs over her daughter's pale cheeks. "Have you been sleeping?"

She didn't even have the energy to tell lies anymore. She survived on half-truths and silence.

"Not really." She admitted. She didn't tell her that her husband came home drunk with other women some nights, forcing her to move to the sofa in the sitting room. She didn't tell her that—on the nights he didn't do that—he sometimes yelled until three AM. "I've been having strange dreams. Scary ones."

Her mum rested her hands on the top of the café table. She smiled knowingly.

"I remember those days. You wouldn't believe some of the dreams I've had while pregnant. Some were truly horrifying. I once dreamt your dad and I were stuck on a sinking Soviet submarine…I was scared to take a bath for at least a week." She laughed.

Lottie smiled weakly.

"What are yours about?" Her mum asked.

Lottie looked down at her sweating glass of water. "It's silly. It's just me getting lost in Sainsbury's. Yours was much worse."

Her mum reached across the table and squeezed her daughter's hand. "I dunno. Getting lost can be just as horrific. I wish I knew how to make them go away, but I never did find a way. Just look forward to that wonderful moment when you wake up and you're breathless with relief. My life never looked better than it did when I woke up and realized that I wasn't drowning with Soviets, I was just lying in a crappy flat listening to your dad talk in his sleep. Puts things into perspective."

Lottie didn't say a word, because she realized she never felt that upon waking. There was no relief. It was as if she'd slid from nightmare to nightmare.

* * *

She wanted so terribly to make it work that she convinced herself it was. But his words ran through her mind during the day now, too. (_You're stupid and worthless; no one will ever love you. No one will ever love you. It never gets any better than this. I am more than you deserve. I've made you better. I've made you better. I've taught you well. Why are you crying? I love you, babe. Shut up. Just shut up! I hate you. I hate you.)_

* * *

Her mum was growing terribly suspicious, so suspicious that Lottie couldn't let her come over to her and Oliver's house anymore. She'd tried to pretend everything was all right, but physically she was deteriorating, and it was something she couldn't hide.

Oliver stopped going over to her parents' house for dinner because of how much Miles and Poppy hated him (and made that hatred known). Bristol and Ellie had yet to meet him, and Lottie figured Oliver was lucky for that. He started requesting that Lottie not visit her parents, requests that Lottie ignored. But she soon found out that the joy of seeing her mum and dad didn't quite offset the misery of listening to Oliver scream at her for it.

It broke her heart when her sister called her crying, heartbroken to have missed her sister's wedding, and to have only heard about it a few hours in advance. Lottie sat in the bathroom and tried to comfort Ellabell without crying herself. She felt deep shame and panic building inside of her. She wanted to say _it wasn't what I wanted_, but she was afraid he'd hear her.

_This isn't like you_, Ellabell had sobbed. _You never talk to me anymore. You never laugh. I want my sister back. I miss you. I want you back. _

Lottie had cried for hours after she hung up with Ellabell, her arms wrapped as much around her stomach as they could. She was so far along in her pregnancy that the baby's head was a heavy, uncomfortable weight on her cervix, and she sobbed so hard she swore she was going to send herself into early labor. After three hours of crying, her husband appeared in the doorway, cross and fed up.

"What the fuck are you crying about?!" He demanded. He sneered. "God, you look fucking ridiculous. Get off the damn floor."

Lottie pressed the heels of her hands to her hot cheeks. She wanted to explain and bare her feelings to him, the way she always saw her parents do with each other, but it proved to be a mistake. She'd only just told him how she felt guilty for not inviting her sister, and then he was off.

"Your other sister was there. Who gives a shit? Send her some pictures. I can't believe you're crying over that. What a sodding joke." He muttered in disgust. "Besides, if she's anything like your other siblings, I'm sure she's obnoxious and self-righteous. The wedding was better without her."

Lottie struggled to rise to her feet, hurt and angry. Her husband watched coldly from the doorway as she attempted to stand. He started laughing jeeringly only a few moments later. Lottie was quivering with rage when she finally stood.

"Don't talk about my family that way," she said, her eyes locked on his in a glare. But her cheeks were searing with embarrassment.

"It's the goddamn truth." He said. "And if you think we're spending every fucking holiday with them, you're wrong. We're leaving London as soon as that baby's born and getting as far away from them as the English-speaking borders allow."

Lottie had been scared plenty of times in his presence, but that moment, standing in that cold bathroom, was the most frightened she'd ever been. Because all at once, she realized that she was not in control like she thought she was. She grappled for it, but her protests were airy and weak.

"You can't make that call for all of us. I don't want to leave. I want to be here with my family!"

Her breath caught in her throat. She barely had time to cringe back before he was in front of her, his hand squeezing her chin to the point of aching pain. She could feel the bones of his fingers pressing hard against her teeth through her cheek. Her jaw burned with pain from the pressure of his grip.

"I'm your family." He said slowly, carefully, his eyes locked on hers. "Don't you forget it again."

She waited until he was asleep, and then she stepped out onto the balcony. She held a bag of frozen vegetables to her jaw and wept.

She wanted her father more in that moment than she'd ever wanted anything.

But it wasn't about her anymore.

* * *

That night, she had a different dream for the first time in weeks.

"Is he happy with you?" Her father asked.

Lottie skipped along beside him, hand in hand, an ice cream held in her other. They were in Central Park, passing the time until her mum would be done with a conference. Lottie looked up at her dad.

"Sometimes," she admitted. She didn't know why, but the topic made her heart heavy and sore. She wanted to be done with it. "When I do what he tells me to."

She looked up at her dad in surprise when they stopped walking. He was so tall that the sun was surrounding his head like a warm halo, and Lottie giggled to herself at the image. _Forgive me father, for I have sinned. _She giggled and giggled and giggled—until suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. Her laughter pandered off as her stomach sank, but as soon as the bad feeling hit her, it was gone.

He stooped down slowly and looked at her in concern, the same way he looked at her whenever she was ill. He gently held her chin—so softly that Lottie almost couldn't feel his touch at all- and then met her eyes seriously.

"I don't want him to be happy with you." He said. Lottie couldn't remember what they were talking about, but she knew it was important. "If he's happy with you, that means you aren't happy. And your happiness is so important, Lottie. It matters."

Those words made her hands weak, and that made her ice cream fall. Lottie watched it splatter onto the pavement, mint green against tan. She began weeping passionately without reserve, utterly heartbroken, and when she automatically looked up in fear, she saw her father was reaching for her. He lifted her up into his arms and cradled her close. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head.

"There, there. We'll get you another ice cream," he comforted. "Accidents happen."

Lottie shook in his arms. "You aren't angry? 'Cause it's silly to cry?"

Her father stopped walking. He leaned back and looked at her, his light eyebrows furrowed.

"It's never silly to cry, Lolly. Who on earth told you that?"

When she failed to respond, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Cry all you need. I'll always be here to wipe away your tears." He promised. "That's what you do when you love someone."

* * *

She woke up at five AM, hours before Oliver. Her pillow was damp with tears and her jaw ached.

She stared at the ceiling and breathed against her racing heart. She pressed a palm to her stomach and replayed the words running fast in her mind. _That's what you do when you love someone. _

She imagined something she never had before. Elsie, a crying toddler, trying desperately to receive comfort from Oliver, only to have him push her away and scold. Lottie had told herself that if she let Oliver take out his frustrations on her, there wouldn't be any left to take out on their daughter. She thought—if only she let him scream and push enough—he'd be able to be a calm, loving father to her baby. But it wasn't like that. She was not a vessel to contain his rage. Who he was with her…that's who he'd be with her daughter, too. That's who he was forever. He would never be a good father to her baby. He would never make her happy. Lottie had invited a wolf into her home and she had slept with him in her bed. And the worst part was that she truly believed he was a prophet.

She shook from fear as she stumbled from the bed. She pressed her wrist to her lips to keep from making any noise. She packed what mattered the most: Cardi, pictures from her childhood, the Encyclopedia of Astronomy her dad got her for Christmas when she was younger, her telescope. She took three pairs of underwear, two bras, and what little amount of clothing she could shove into the empty spaces around the more important items. The only clothing items she took were the clothes in the laundry. She was afraid to go back into her bedroom, afraid her husband would wake. Afraid he would hurt her.

She took the things she loved and left the things she didn't. And on the kitchen she left the only words she needed to say.

_You are not my family._

* * *

She went where everyone goes after something terrible happens.

She went home.

She shut her cell phone off and she sat between her parents on the sofa. Her brother was home for the first time in months, but there was no joyful reunion to be had. He sat across the room from his sister and swallowed roughly as he listened to the months of abuse pour from her lips.

"I wasn't supposed to be like this," she wept. She breathed shakily against the pressure climbing up her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut until she could no longer picture her eight-year-old self. The bruises running along her jaw seared with pain as she did. "I'm not myself anymore."

It had been so long since she'd been comforted while crying that she jumped when her mother reached out to hold her. And that only made it that much worse. She could feel the guilt emitting from both her parents, but it wasn't their fault. They'd begged her not to go back to him. You couldn't help someone who refused to be helped. Someone who lied to the two people who loved them most.

It was hard to do, but when she finally pressed her face against her mother's shoulder, she broke apart. She cried so hard she grew dizzy. All she could hear was her pulse throbbing in her head.

"I'm scared," she gasped between sobs. "I'm so scared. I don't know who I am."

Her mother gripped her fiercely. "I do. I know who you are."

She hoped that was true more than she'd ever hoped for anything.

When her mother rose to grab a box of tissues, Lottie turned towards her dad. She looked up into his eyes and saw a million echoed images of the way he'd looked in every one of her dreams.

"Why didn't you tell us?" He asked her. He had tears sparkling on his cheeks in the dim light. "Why didn't you let me help?"

The image of him was blurry and strained behind her tears.

"I was scared. I thought I had it under control."_ I asked you for help in my dreams every night. I just couldn't do it out here. I wasn't brave enough and I'm sorry._

The question had been drilling away at her heart for weeks. When her father gathered her into his arms, she felt safe enough to ask it.

"Why can't he love me?" She asked. "I tried so hard. I did everything I could. What's wrong with me?" She hid her damp face against his shirt. Her lungs burned from the force of her tears. "I'm so messed up."

"No. You are _not_. _He's_ what's wrong with you. There's nothing wrong with _you_. Nothing." Her dad whispered earnestly. "Anyone who can't see that is messed up."

"You just think that because you're my dad," she sobbed.

"No. I_ know_ that because I'm your dad."

It didn't take Oliver long to put it all together. When he showed up at her parents' house, fuming and shaking with rage, Lottie was so scared she wanted to run and apologize, just to save her family from one of his explosions. But her brother's worried shock had finally waned. He set a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head. And she trusted him. She sat in the chair beside the hall doorway, watching, just out of Oliver's sight.

Her brother yanked the door open so hard that it slammed back into the wall. Lottie jumped and looked up at the sitting room wall as the pictures shook on their hooks. She looked up at her dad, who was pacing the carpet tirelessly, expecting him to run and stop Bristol from whatever he was going to do, but he was looking forward with a cold indifference. Lottie was sure he was living vicariously through his son as he began speaking, his voice low and brimming with fury.

"Leave." Bristol said.

"Where is she?" Oliver demanded. Lottie saw him make to step into the hall, but her brother stepped to the right, barring him from entering. He was emotionless as he spoke.

"If I ever see you again, I will fucking_ kill_ you." Her brother said. His tone left no room for doubt. It was as steely and determined as ever.

Oliver snorted. He stepped forward into the doorway and curled his hand around the door frame. He leaned towards Bristol, but he still didn't step back. He peered right back at him.

"Yeah?" Oliver breathed. His eyes studied Bristol's. "Big, bad Cambridge boy. I bet you fit right in there, with all your wussy, silver-spoon-fed friends. What are you going to do? I've done nothing wrong. Anything she says I did, she deserved it. _You're _the ones who brainwashed her."

Lottie watched as her brother lifted his arm. She thought he was going to punch Oliver, but he didn't. He set his palm against Oliver's chest lightly and then shoved him, just enough to push most of his body from the doorway. Oliver tightened his hand on the doorframe to keep from falling backwards off the front stoop, and went to pull himself back through, but Bristol was too quick. He set his hand on the back of the front door and shoved, hard. It flew forward and slammed shut on Oliver's fingers with a loud, sickening crunch. When it swung back, Oliver was bent over at the waist, gasping from pain.

"Oh, ouch. You really shouldn't hold onto a doorframe like that." Her brother commented lightly. "Your fingers might accidentally get smashed."

Oliver coughed, still bent over.

"I-I'm going to—" he started to threat, but the moment he tried to lift his hand, he let out a cry of pain. "You're going to regret this!"

Bristol laughed. It was short and jeering.

"No, I don't think I will. You deserved it." He went to shut the door in Oliver's face, but he hesitated. He pulled it back just enough to speak through the crack. "You know, I feel a lot better now. I'm ready to go finish a conversation with some contacts of mine."

"LOTTIE, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!" Oliver shrieked. "YOU'LL REGRET THIS! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME FROM SEEING YOU! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME FROM SEEING MY DAUGHTER! I'LL GO TO THE POLICE! I'LL GET HER TAKEN FROM YOU!"

"Oh, see, you're still a bit too slow there, mate." Bristol sighed. "I've already contacted the head of the law department at my university and I've received a tidy email with plenty of phone numbers. You'll be lucky to get to see your daughter once a month. And, in reply to your earlier question, _that's_ what this Cambridge boy is going to do. Now fuck off before it's your head that accidentally gets smashed."

Bristol shook his head in confusion after he slammed the door and locked it. He looked up at Clara, who'd been observing from the top of the stairs.

"Why would anybody think messing with our family is a good idea?" He demanded. "I mean, first of all, there's so many of us."

"Low IQ and poor survival instincts."

* * *

Her waters broke that night at eleven PM. She'd been playing a halfhearted game of Sharks Have Teeth with her parents, and she was so emotionally and mentally drained from the day that she hardly noticed it.

She wasn't sure what it was at first, because it was a slow, gradual trickle of moisture opposed to a sudden gush, but her mother only had to glance under the table in confusion once. She dropped her cards on the table, face up, her jaw dropped. She let out a shaky laugh.

"Lottie!" She said. She reached across the table and grasped her daughter's hands. "Your waters broke!"

Lottie blinked and felt a confusing mixture of happiness and fear.

"No," She said, and then she laughed. She looked down at her wet pajama bottoms as her heart jumped.

"God, okay, okay, up we go, hospital, hospital," her dad muttered nervously. Lottie took her mother's outstretched hand and rose shakily. When she felt a strange pain building, she looked up and met her mum's eyes.

"Oh, shit," she gasped. She tightened her hold on her mum's hand. "Call Ellabell! See where she is!"

While her mother rang her sister (who'd left for home that morning after her parents called her about Lottie), her father turned his attention to her brother and sister, who'd been sitting in the corner of the sitting room plotting revenge all night.

"And then—"

"—Flaming bags of shit, yeah."

"So are we setting the spiders loose before or after the flaming bags of shit?"

"I was thinking spiders, and then once he's stressed about that, throw the flaming bags of shit."

"Brilliant!"

"Poppy! Bristol! Stop scheming, your sister's going into labor!" The Doctor yelped. He spun nervously on the spot. "Where's your brother?!"

Bristol and Poppy exchanged quick, nervous looks.

"Erm…out buying a bag of spiders."

Her dad threw his hands up. "A bag of sodding—where the hell is he buying a bag of spiders?!"

Poppy waved her hand nonchalantly. "He's got connections."

"Connections?! He's sixteen!" Clara exclaimed. She grasped Lottie's hand tightly as she gasped aloud in pain. "Don't panic, sweetie. Just squeeze my hand."

The pain took her breath away and cleared her mind completely.

"Oh, Mum," she bit out. "I didn't think it'd be this bad. And this is just the beginning, isn't it?"

"You're going to be all right. Your sister's only twenty minutes away, and we're here, and you're strong." She reassured her.

She was thankful that it'd all happened so quickly, because she knew Oliver wouldn't have expected her to go into labor that night. He would be thankfully away, sulking in the house with a bottle of gin, waiting for her to return. But she wasn't going to. Lottie squeezed her mum's hand in the back of the car and promised herself she never would again.

Of course, her thankful attitude dwindled as her labor progressed. The epidural helped some, but not enough, and when her mother climbed up onto the bed beside her, she lost all the composure she'd been pretending to have. The emotional strain of her day tore her open. Her cries were mingled with pain.

"I let you down," she sobbed, her eyes chained on her mother's. She lifted her wrist and pressed it over her mouth. "I let myself down. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry things ended up this way."

Her cries became gasping. She felt her father take her hand, but she was too upset to turn his way. Her mother stared at her in horror, her brown eyes reflective from a sheen of tears. She reached forward and pulled Lottie's hair over her shoulders.

"No. No, love. Never." She reassured her.

"I did, though. You always told me to never let a man treat me like that. You always told me to be my own woman. And I…I got lost, and I was stupid. I thought if only I tried hard enough, I could make Oliver into a good man. I wanted…Mum, I just wanted to be like you. Just like you. But I fucked it up."

Lottie fell into her mother's opened arms. She wept into her shirt, half from pain and half from sadness. She could feel her father stroking her hair.

"Listen to me." Her mother said gently. She pulled her back and reached forward to cradle her face, her eyes firm and serious. "_I _don't want you to be just like me. I want you to be just like _you_. I love _you_. And you don't need to be like me, because you're already better."

She tasted her tears as she parted her lips to smile. Her mother grinned back and tapped the top of her head.

"That's my girl."

She turned over and threw her arms around her father. He hugged her back just as fiercely.

"Your baby doesn't need that asshole for a father to be happy. She just needs you." Her dad added.

When she finally had her child in her arms, she understood.

She was more than just her own. She was Elsie's, too.

* * *

"When do you think it all began?"

Lottie looked up at the counselor. She thought she knew, but the more she thought about it, she realized she had no idea.

"Dunno. I never…thought that it could happen to me. When I was younger and I learnt about abusive relationships, I assumed it happened to women who were…I don't know. Meek. Vulnerable. I told myself it wasn't possible for me to be a victim. I wasn't raised in a bad home. I never witnessed abuse or grew up thinking it was okay. I thought I was invincible. I thought I could take it."

Lottie watched as the woman wrote something down. She waited and stared at the clock, anxious for the meeting to be over, so she could get home to her baby.

"But you do understand that it's not your fault, right?" The counselor pressed. "It's his."

"Yes," she said. "And no."

"You've got time to come to understand it. It's natural to blame yourself when something like this happens, because you've been brainwashed to see yourself as your abuser saw you. How have you been? Are you sleeping better? How's the custody case?"

She could talk about the present a lot easier than she could talk about the past. She smiled.

"We won. Elsie's mine except for three hours every two weeks, and he's not allowed to take her from my place of residence during that visiting period. He lost his temper during the court battle and started yelling at me—didn't do him any favors."

"Congratulations," she smiled. "I'm assuming you're sleeping better now that that's over and done."

"Much better. Things are good. I mean, I'm overwhelmed, but I did end up moving back home, like my mum asked me to. It's helped. I don't feel so scared anymore."

"Living in your own flat so soon might have been a bit too ambitious," the counselor agreed gently. "So everything's good at home?"

"Yeah. Everyone's been about as maddeningly helpful as they've always been. My dad's read about three books on 'helping your daughter recover from an abusive relationship'. He signed us both up for this posh yoga class, which is absolutely ridiculous if you know how clumsy and uncoordinated my father is. One of the books said yoga and meditation were a great way to rebuild confidence in yourself, but really all it's doing is reminding me what it feels like to laugh until my stomach hurts. My dad got literally stuck trying to do a shoulder stand—like his legs flipped over his head and he couldn't move—and the instructor thinks he's absolutely hopeless. And my mum's been hovering, but in the best way. The kind of way I never appreciated when I was a teenager. Every single day I realize that I couldn't do a thing without her. And my siblings are…my siblings. Not much change there—we bicker and such, but I'm glad for the normalcy."

The counselor laughed politely.

"It seems as if you've got a wonderful support system in place."

That support system was the only thing that had given her the strength to leave Oliver. It was the only thing that gave her the strength to pick herself back up. She didn't know what people did without parents, without that unconditional soft place to land when everything else fell to shit, including themselves. And she didn't want to find out.

"I hit rock bottom and no one left me." She realized. "They all just…rushed forward and dusted me back off. And because of that, I don't really fear failure anymore."

She was gathering her things to leave when her counselor tagged on another question.

"Have you been able to play football again yet?"

Lottie hefted her bag up.

"No. Not yet. But I won't let him take my love for that away, too."

She stacked her papers neatly. Her smile seemed almost proud.

"Good for you, Lottie."

* * *

"I mean, what the hell is that about? I swear, my dad treats me like some sort of precious science experiment sometimes."

Lottie gave Jenny a sympathetic smile. She bounced Elsie on her lap until her attention was torn to her cousin, who had angrily slammed her bottle of beer on the coffee table. Lottie lunged forward and grabbed the folder she'd set her bottle down on.

"Watch it! That's my thirty-page paper on the parsecs of two fictional galaxies!"

Jenny quickly seized her bottle. "Sorry!"

"Between wayward bottles of beer and Elsie's spit-up, I'll be lucky to have anything to turn in." She looked back to her babbling daughter and kissed her smooth forehead. "And I know Uncle Ten's kind of strange sometimes, but he's not trying to be ridiculous. He's just worried about you. In all fairness, flying an airplane is kind of dangerous."

Jenny leaned back on the sofa and glared up at the ceiling.

"Yeah, well, I wish he'd be a little less worried. It seems parents are just there to worry about you and drive you mad." She grumbled. She shot a quick, guilty look towards Lottie. "I mean, except you, of course."

Lottie felt her heart swell with joy as Elsie smiled at her. She lifted her tiny fist to her lips and kissed the back of it. It had been a long time coming, but she felt happier than she'd been in a long time.

"And take care of you." Lottie added. She smiled back at her baby as she thought of all the things her parents had done for her. "They're there to worry, drive you mad, and take care of you. They're saviors."


	3. Warm-hearted

**A/n**: This falls between chapters 11 and 12 of OAAC and covers something briefly mentioned in chapter 19. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_PART 3/8 | CHARLOTTE | RATED T  
_

**Warm-hearted**

* * *

The sound of screaming woke her that morning.

Charlotte sat straight up and reached for her phone right as the man in her bed flipped right off it. He landed hard on the floor and groaned curses as Charlotte squinted at the screen.

"What was _that_?!" Samuel croaked, startled and scarred from her ringtone.

Charlotte brushed her messy hair over her shoulder. The backs of her eyes ached from the bright screen as she fumbled with the phone. Finally, she was able to make out her friend's name. She quickly answered before the call ended.

"Hi, Clara. Hang on a moment," she moved the phone away from her mouth. "It's my ringtone. It's a soundbite of people screaming from a zombie movie. It's the only thing that wakes me up."

"What the fuck?! Don't you think you should have warned me? Christ!" He was still quivering as he slowly popped into view. He set his hands on the edge of the mattress and hoisted his naked body back onto the bed. He looked at her and pouted, like he was waiting for her to quickly end her call. Charlotte resisted the urge to laugh. In all fairness, he was new here. But he had to learn sometime.

Charlotte moved the phone back in place and looked away from Samuel.

"Sorry. What's up?"

At first she thought it was the new baby crying in the background, but then she realized it was _deeper_ than that. And then she realized it wasn't so much as crying as pained wheezing.

"The Doctor's sick," her friend greeted. Charlotte heard the tight, anxious quality to Clara's voice and quickly placed it on a scale of severity. Judging by the clipped vowels and crowded space between her words, it was at least a seven.

"Uh oh. With what? How bad?" Charlotte asked. When Samuel huffed in disbelief, she glared his way. It was noon; it was plenty late enough for her to talk on the phone to her best friend in her own goddamn bedroom. She hated when men stayed the night.

"Pneumonia. The GP said it could be treated fine from home, but he's bad off. And I'm drowning here. I'm trying to contain it so none of the kids get it—especially not the baby—but it's impossible to take care of him, completely disinfect, and take care of the kids. Miles is going through a growth spurt and I swear he's been nursing on the hour_ for _an hour, but I can't exactly take him back into the room with me to check on the Doctor, and he can't even get his first vaccination until he's two months old, and—"

Charlotte reached up and rubbed her eyes. She was yawning as she interrupted her friend's panicked speech.

"You're rambling," she pointed out gently. "Do you need me to come by?"

The aggravated huff Samuel gave that time was almost impressive. Charlotte looked over at him in surprise and clapped his shoulder, much to his confusion. He stared at the bed with his brow furrowed after she turned away again.

"Yes, please," Clara begged. "It's you or Tara, and I really don't want her over here yet, because it's the Doctor's first week post-neurosurgery and I know she'll just go mad and make everything worse."

"Her little adopted golden boy finally grew his own backbone. It's enough to make anyone mad." Charlotte agreed. She pushed the blankets off her legs and turned so she was sitting on the edge of the bed. "All right. I'll be over in twenty. Just…take deep breaths." Charlotte paused. "Or, no, actually…take _shallow _breaths. Tie a bandana over your mouth or something."

Clara's laugh was weak and humorless, and absolutely only for Charlotte's benefit, but she was thankful for it anyway. Laughing kindly while nearing anxious hysteria; _that _was a true friend. And Charlotte had had plenty of shit ones, so she knew how to tell the difference.

Samuel didn't seem too interested in that fact, however. Charlotte listened to him bitch as she brushed her teeth and dressed. He followed her like a puppy into the kitchen, whining nonstop about how he'd had so much "planned" for them that afternoon, and how she was "ruining it". Charlotte spun around after pulling spinach from the fridge and sighed.

"Samuel, Samuel," she started. She sighed again and shook her head. "Look, it's not that I didn't enjoy last night. I did. In fact, I've enjoyed every night this week. It's just that I'm not really a 24-hours type of woman. You know?"

He blinked in confusion, his curls haloing his face in a hectic array. Charlotte could still feel that same befuddled look leveled on her as she turned and dropped spinach into the blender.

"I don't understand," he admitted sadly. "I thought we were having a nice time."

Charlotte dumped a cup of water into the blender on top of the spinach. She patted Samuel's arm reassuringly as she circled around him to grab two bananas from the fruit bowl. She tapped his shoulder with one as she passed, in what she hoped was another reassuring gesture, but it ended up being a bit harder than she planned. He rubbed his arm crossly.

"Sorry," she said. "And what I mean is…I don't do morning afters, and I certainly don't do entire days with one person. It's a bit too much." She peeled the bananas and shoved the peels to the side. After only a moment of chopping, she turned, the words finally taking root in her mouth. She pointed the knife at him. "It's overkill! That's exactly what it is. Why smother a good thing?"

"But…" he said.

She dumped the banana slices into the blender. Once she'd pressed the button, she turned so her back was against the counter. She had to yell over the machine.

"IT'S LIKE...YOU'RE MY NIGHTTIME GUY."

He threw his head back in frustration.

"But I dontwannabe—"

"YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP."

"BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE JUST YOUR NIGHTTIME GUY. AND…MY FEELINGS ARE HURT THAT YOU'RE KICKING ME OUT SO YOU CAN—DO WHATEVER YOU'RE GOING TO DO! I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO SHAG?"

Charlotte turned back around the check the consistency of her smoothie. It was still a bit too lumpy, so she looked back towards him, ignoring the grinding screams of the blender.

"LOOK. I WILL ALWAYS CHOOSE THAT WEIRD FAMILY OVER MY FANNY."

"WHAT?"

"I SAID—I'LL ALWAYS CHOOSE THAT WEIRD FAMILY OVER MY—"

"NO, I HEARD YOU, I JUST…_WHAT_?! WHY?! YOU'RE DITCHING ME TO GO PLAY AUNT? AND ISN'T THAT THE FRIEND YOU ALWAYS CALL THE "CRAZY BABY LADY"?"

Charlotte blinked. "WELL IT'S AN AFFECTIONATE NICKNAME, ISN'T IT? ANYWAY, SHE'S LEVEL-SEVEN PANICKED."

She spun back around and quickly stopped the blender. She pulled a tumbler from the cabinet and quickly poured the pureed mixture in.

Samuel took a calming breath.

"I have no bloody idea what that means, so I'm just going to ignore it. I wish you'd give us a chance. You need me, I can tell. Why won't you let yourself admit it?"

Charlotte pushed the lid on and then lifted her eyebrow at Samuel.

"Okay, let's get one thing straight. I don't _need _you. I don't need anyone. And I don't mean that in a sad, heartbroken _oh no, some boy broke my heart when I was a girl_ kind of way. I mean it in an honest _I'm fine on my own_ kind of way."

Samuel scoffed. "Rubbish."

"Right, well, you can think that all you want. But I'm still leaving and so are you." Charlotte declared. "I'm going to help my friend with her sick husband and four kids, and you're going to…do whatever it is you do during the day. I'll see you tonight, or not. Whichever you prefer."

She pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer and grabbed a shot glass, shooting quick looks his way through the corner of her eye every few moments, hoping he'd get the hint. She dumped a shot into her smoothie and then reached for one of the many straws littering the counter. She stirred, tense and waiting, but when he failed to move an inch, she sighed. She spun around in irritation.

"Vodka?" He demanded. "I thought you were going to babysit."

"I put the vodka in _because _I'm going to babysit."

"Sounds responsible."

"Nice sass, Samuel. Where'd you get it?"

"I'm just saying! Whatever works. Christ." He grumbled. "Look, can I at least come with you?"

Charlotte didn't mean to, but she let out a jeering laugh after that question. She took a long sip of the smoothie before responding.

"Hell no," she laughed. "It's like mass chaos over there. Not fit for public viewing." Charlotte paused and looked up. She tapped the straw against the bottom of the cup thoughtfully. "A _bit _like my computer club on the 31st of December, 1999."

He took an eager step forward. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

She took a step back to keep their physical distance at a constant balance. She was struggling to control her irritation.

"No, it's that bad. My friend and her husband are proper in love and it's even worse when they have new babies. They baby talk to it at the _same time_ and it's nauseating. Not to mention the other little monsters—bless them—are usually so excited from the new baby that they run around like wild, rabid animals, tearing into biscuit packages, sneaking sugar cubes through the house in their underpants—no, no, you can't come."

He crossed his arms stubbornly. "I'm fantastic with children."

Charlotte couldn't help it. Her thin patience tore.

"For fuck's sake, Samuel, can you not take a hint? I'm leaving. You need to go. You cannot come with me. I do not want to be with you right now. I'm trying to be polite about it, but you're just not getting it. Sunny _shits_!"

He looked insulted this time. His shoulders went back and he stood up straighter, his eyebrows rising high on his face.

"Fine." He said. His voice was hard and icy. "But I'll have you know it's a mess around here! Clean every once and a while!"

Charlotte nodded distractedly. "Yes, yes, I'm aware it's a mess. I like it this way."

He grappled for something else to say. "And…and while we're airing all this, it fucking drives me mad how your dad never talks in English around me! I don't know Russian and it's really rude to exclude me like that!"

He'd met her dad briefly only twice—both times he'd swung by Charlotte's at dinnertime to drop off some new technology—and he'd failed to get over her father's conversational language since.

"We've been through this. It reminds him of my grandmother. It's nothing to do with you." She drew out tiredly. She walked briskly past him and grabbed her bag. She diligently ignored the sting of pain that pierced her chest for a moment. "Time to go."

"Can I go with you to the tube?" He pleaded.

"I'm walking."

He groaned angrily. "God, you drive me mad! I can't stand it!"

"So I'll see you tonight at eight, then?"

"Yeah. I'll be at my flat, just come 'round." He growled. She watched him stomp off, feeling an odd mixture of annoyance and amusement. She was glad to be rid of him despite it. They worked best when they saw each other for short periods of time (periods that were not spent talking).

Had she just been going to visit, she would have jogged to Clara's, but she could only imagine how frazzled her friend was. She took a cab to speed up the travel time. When she arrived outside their home, she was surprised to see Lottie sitting outside with an entire package of Jammie Dodgers in her lap. She froze guiltily when she spotted Charlotte.

"Oh boy," she said. Her tiny arms wrapped protectively around the biscuits.

Charlotte crossed her arms. "Does your Mummy know you're out here?"

"Oh boy," she repeated nervously. "I didn't know you were comin'."

Charlotte walked over and kneeled down in front of her. She reached forward and stole a biscuit from the package. She bit into it, but the taste didn't sit right with her. She grimaced and turned her head so she could spit it into the grass.

"Ick, no, those are never good to me. I don't know why I keep giving them a second chance," she said.

Lottie tightened her hold on the package. "Don't tell my Mummy!"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't. You have fifteen seconds and fifty words at your disposal. Go."

"Because…because…I'm really cute?" Lottie tried. She smiled angelically a moment later and fluttered her eyelashes. Charlotte rolled her eyes.

"Nice try." She said. "That might work on your dad, but he's soft, and I'm not." She reached forward to take the package, but Lottie jumped up before she could.

"No! Come on, Charlie!" She whined. "I'm only going to have seven! That's one for every year I've been alive!"

Charlotte knew technically she probably should have taken them, but she'd never quite understood all the rules parents gave kids. She observed Lottie for a moment longer and then shrugged.

"Seven seems all right. Just come in the house; you shouldn't be outside alone. Go hide in the broom cupboard and eat them or something."

Lottie beamed and jumped up. She threw her arms around Charlotte's waist and hugged her fiercely.

"Thank you! I love you!" She exclaimed.

And even though she never would have admitted it to anyone, Charlotte felt her heart swell just a bit. She smiled slightly and set a brief hand on top of Lottie's head.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too, kid." She muttered offhandedly. "But you need to work on your negotiation skills. Step up your game, all right?"

Lottie nodded obediently. Charlotte set her hands on her hips and huffed in exasperation, but she was still smiling as Lottie sprinted through the doorway, the package stuffed safely underneath her shirt. Sometimes the appeal of children made complete sense to Charlotte, and other times, it didn't. As she walked fully into the house, she came to understand why it didn't once more.

"Hi, Charlie!" Bristol greeted, but he didn't look up at her for more than a second, as he was currently in the process of gluing coins to the staircase wall. While naked.

Charlotte wished she'd put two shots into her smoothie.

"Hello, Bristol. Why aren't you wearing clothes?" She inquired lightly.

Bristol didn't even look up. "Why ARE you wearing clothes?" He shot back.

"Because you're supposed to wear clothes?" Charlotte reminded him. "It's like…a thing. That people do."

The four-year-old shrugged. "I'm not a people."

"Oh, my God," Charlotte sighed. "Okay, so why don't you tell me what you're doing with the glue and the coins?"

Bristol turned and looked at her. His entire hand was coated in sticky, white glue. He pointed at his collage.

"I'm making Mummy something. It's Blackpool."

"No, it's not. It's a mess of coins and glue, and we need to clean it up before your mum sees it." Charlotte said sternly.

Bristol turned on the spot. He furrowed his tiny face so fiercely in anger that his dimple made an appearance.

"It. Is. BLACKPOOL!" He insisted. His voice echoed shrilly around the hall.

Charlotte pressed her fingers over her eyes. "Mm'kay, I'm not arguing with a naked preschooler over the artistic merits of gluing coins to the wall. You have fun with that. I'm going to find your mum."

"I will have fun. I will have _so much _fun." He spat. He glared and turned back around.

Charlotte wandered into the kitchen. She didn't find Clara there, but she did locate Ellabell. She was wearing a leotard and an absurdly large tutu that looked almost hazardous. It didn't help matters that she was twirling around and around to some opera music. She waved regally towards Charlotte as she entered.

"Hello," she called.

"Hi. Have you seen your mum?" Charlotte asked loudly. "Things are…a bit out of hand."

"Daddy couldn't breathe, like when you're underwater." Ellie informed her. She did some stumbling renditions of what was supposed to be a pirouette. "Miles was wrapped up like a little, bitty caterpillar in a fuzzy cocoon."

Charlotte stared at her.

"O…kay. So she's in her bedroom with your dad?" She surmised.

"Exactly. This is _Carmen_." Ellabell said. "Mummy wants us to listen to it so we'll be smarter. I'm the only one who likes it. So I must be the smartest."

Charlotte couldn't imagine why _anyone _would sit and listen to it, much less a child, but then again her favorite kind of music was electronica. She patted the top of Ellie's head as she walked past her.

"Stay weird, El."

She'd never set foot in Clara's bedroom while both her and the Doctor were in it, and she never planned on it, either. They owned the space around them when they were together in a way that was even present in public places; Charlotte couldn't imagine how imposing it'd feel to be in their bedroom with them. She was walking through the sitting room when she found herself crossing paths with Clara.

"There you are!" Charlotte said in relief. "Your kids are—"

She stopped as her friend came fully into view. True to Ellie's word, Miles was swaddled up so tightly she almost couldn't find his face, and her friend was a similar image of anxiety. Charlotte eyed her pale, makeup-less face, her spit-up splattered T-shirt yanked halfway up over her left breast, her opened nursing bra, her wrinkled pajama bottoms. Her brow furrowing with pity.

"Oh, yikes. This may be an eight, not a seven," she murmured, more to herself than anything. She worked to make her tone gentle, unsure how emotionally wrought Clara was. "Your tit is hanging out, friend."

Clara glanced down briefly, like she'd forgotten. She looked back up only a moment later.

"Yeah, I know. I got tired of putting them away, then pulling them back out, then putting them away...it's a chore. Is it bothering you?" She asked. The baby made a sound of protest and Clara quickly went about unswaddling him, now that they weren't near the infected upstairs. He looked a lot less cross once she had.

"Please, like I haven't seen your tits before. Just wondering what the nudity issue is here. Your son is running around nude." Charlotte shared.

Clara bowed forward in frustration. She rubbed her face angrily and then held Miles out to Charlotte. Charlotte looked at him uncertainly.

"Erm…I'm not really a baby person." Charlotte reminded her.

"Go on. It's fine. Take him." Clara urged. "I've got to yell at my other son, and I don't want to scare this one."

Charlotte bit her lip, but extended her hands slowly anyway. Clara set the baby in her hands—a lot quicker and more trusting than Charlotte would have if she were her—and then hurried to the doorway as Charlotte struggled to get a good grip on the infant. She had his head cupped in her palm at first, with her other hand under his bottom, but then her forearms started to cramp. She was too afraid to bring him close to her body, though, in fear she'd drop him. She stood still and looked at the newborn in fear. It only got worse when he started wailing.

"Fuck, God, I hate babies," Charlotte hissed. She tried bouncing him gently in her hands, but that only made him angrier. His cheeks were turning red as he screamed. "Fucking—um…look, I know you're crying, but how about we…don't?"

"BRISTOL FINLAY OSWALD-SMITH," Clara started angrily.

Charlotte bent her head over the baby. "Just think about that name and laugh. Come on, laugh, don't cry…"

"I ASKED YOU TO STOP TAKING YOUR CLOTHES OFF! I'M COUNTING TO THREE, AND IF YOU'RE NOT HEADING TO YOUR ROOM TO GET DRESSED, NO TELEVISION FOR…SIX DAYS!"

Charlotte heard the preschooler groan all the way from the sitting room.

"MUMMY NO!"

"ONE…TWO…"

"OKAY, I'M GOIN', I'M GOIN', CLARA!"

"YOU'D BETTER BE, BRISTOL!"

"I AM! I AM! 'KAY?!"

Charlotte thrust the infant towards Clara the minute she walked back in. She couldn't help but somewhat envy the relaxed way Clara gathered the infant back into her arms, confident but careful. She even lifted him vertical for a moment— her hand cupping the back of his head mindfully— and cradled him close long enough to kiss the top of his head. Charlotte's mother often said she and Clara were the perfect foils for each other, and she understood it more than ever in moments like these. And when Clara was hand in hand with the Doctor while Charlotte was aggressively ignoring text messages from one-night stands.

"I guess now's the best time to tell you he's been gluing coins to the wall."

Clara let out a sound close to a whimper. She looked up at Charlotte helplessly.

"I left them alone for ten minutes. _Ten minutes_. The Doctor had a coughing fit, and then he couldn't breathe, and then I come out here and Bristol's naked and gluing shit to the wall, and God only knows where the girls are!"

"Ellabell's dancing to _Carmen_, if that makes you feel any better. And I saw Lottie. She was…behaving." Charlotte lied.

Clara stroked her fingers over the sparse hair on the infant's head and sighed.

"I know you're lying, but I'm too overwhelmed to address it." She admitted. She started to say something else, but Miles parted his lips and made the most pathetic whimpering sound that Charlotte had ever heard. Clara threw her head back.

"There is no way he's hungry _again_," she complained. She looked back down at him, but right as she did, a resounding _Clara!_ came echoing from upstairs. She looked down at the baby, and then towards the direction of the stairs. She glanced back at her friend. "Do you see this? It's been like this all day."

Charlotte tried her best to be understanding, but she couldn't really understand it. She'd never _wanted_ to understand it.

"Honestly, this is the whole reason I never had kids or got married."

"Yeah, well, I'm starting to understand that." Clara grumbled. When Miles kept crying, and the Doctor called her name one more time, she looked to her friend helplessly. "All right. Which baby do you want? The little one or the big one?"

Charlotte took a slight step back. "I don't have what the little one wants. Nor the big one, for that matter."

"There's at least a dozen bottles in the fridge. He sometimes takes to them okay." Clara told her. She held the baby out and then swayed him slowly, like someone would wave something tempting in front of another person's face. "This one is really cute," she sang. She faltered after that. Her nose wrinkled and her dimple came into view. "Actually, the big one's cute too, just not when he's coughing up bloody mucus."

Charlotte's stomach churned violently.

"Ugh!" She groaned. "No, give me the milk one. You can have bloody mucus."

"Good choice." Clara said. She lifted the flap of her nursing bra and fastened it back over herself. She paused in the process of pulling her shirt down. She stared into the baby's eyes. "No, don't look at me like that. I have gone above and beyond!"

He blinked and opened his lips a few times, like he had plenty to say. Clara narrowed her eyes.

"I went to the supermarket with you attached to me. The supermarket! Have you ever tried to push a trolley and shop for a family of six with a baby on your tit, little man?!"

Definitely a level eight. Charlotte stepped forward.

"All right. Come on. You're losing it. He's like what—two weeks old? He can't form thoughts, much less hold a grudge. Pass him here slowly." She said firmly.

Clara pressed an apologetic kiss to the baby's tiny forehead and then handed him over to Charlotte. Charlotte stared down at him, keeping him perched awkwardly in her hands like before, and then looked up at her friend.

"How do I get the bottle out if he's in my hands?" She fretted.

Clara looked at her strangely. "Cradle him in one arm."

Charlotte laughed nervously. "Ha, of course, sure! Yeah! One arm, right."

She waited until Clara left the room, shooting suspicious looks over her shoulder every few steps, and then she looked down at the infant in a panic.

"Shit." She said. "Okay, I'm going to hold you over the sofa, that way if you fall you won't die. Probably."

She walked slowly over to the sofa and leaned her body over it. She slowly moved him so his head was resting against the inner elbow of her left arm. She supported the rest of his body with her left forearm, but she still didn't think it was that secure. She glanced anxiously around the sitting room until she located a throw blanket, and then she tied the throw blanket around her neck, with the majority of it supporting just below her arm like a sling. In case he fell.

"Slow and steady wins the race," she whispered. They all but crawled to the kitchen. She sat on the padded bench that ran underneath the kitchen window once she had the bottle in hand, not wanting to risk another journey to the sitting room. She held the bottle in front of him uncertainly.

"Do I just…shove this in your mouth?" She hissed. She waited to see if he'd open his mouth, but he didn't. She pressed the bottle against his lips slowly, but the nipple only folded in on itself when he refused to part his lips. She pulled it back. "Okay. Maybe you _can _hold grudges."

She supposed she'd be pissed if she were a baby, too. To go from being held by someone nice and warm, who also happened to taste good, to being held by someone who had zero chemistry with kids and had really cold hands and no softness. Charlotte sighed and leaned back against the window.

"I understand, Milo."

He responded with a resounding cry.

* * *

She hadn't moved an inch when Clara finally rushed back into the kitchen. She held up a finger as Charlotte moved to rise and pass her the crying baby.

"I washed my hands, but I've got to wash my face, too." She explained.

Charlotte grimaced. "Your face? Were you kissing him? You're going to get yourself sick."

Clara glanced back defensively. "He's sick and miserable. Of course I kissed him."

"Yuck." Charlotte curled her upper lip in disgust.

She shoved Miles towards Clara once she was back over, her face red from scrubbing. She took the infant and stared at the untouched bottle.

"God dammit," she cursed. "He wouldn't take it?"

Charlotte glared at him. "He doesn't like me."

Clara gave her a knowing look. "I thought he was too young to form thoughts."

"Yeah, well, he's not too young to have feelings." She muttered begrudgingly. She held the bottle out towards her friend.

"Just go put it back in the fridge. He's not a fan of knock-offs apparently." She grumbled. She looked up. "Don't ever let anyone tell you motherhood is easy."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Charlotte muttered.

She sat beside her friend and watched the baby part his lips easily for his mother, when just moments before he'd had them clamped. She glared.

"_Now_ you're hungry," she grumbled. "Little gremlin."

Clara shot her a quick, irritated look, but she didn't say anything else.

"The others love you." She reassured Charlotte. "Speaking of. Guess who I found sneaking out of the cupboard with an empty package of Jammie Dodgers?"

Charlotte looked away casually.

"The Doctor? I thought he was sick."

"On any other day, yes. But no. Lottie. You remember Lottie, right? She's about this high, curly dark hair, sassy mouth?" Clara lifted an eyebrow.

Charlotte sighed. "Okay, I let her. I just didn't see the big deal! What's a shitton of biscuits when you think about it?"

"I ought to make you stay the night so you can see just what a shitton of biscuits causes." Clara threatened.

"No thank you!" Charlotte exclaimed quickly. "What are the three doing now?"

"Watching a film, but that'll only hold their attention for so long."

Charlotte rose to her feet. "I'll just go keep an eye on them, then."

"Actually," her friend called, stalling Charlotte in place. "I was kind of hoping you could pop in on the Doctor. Just really quickly."

Charlotte turned around slowly and grimaced.

"Is he naked?" She asked.

"No, he's not naked." Clara reassured her. "That was one time and you just won't let us forget it, will you?"

Charlotte gagged. "No, I will not!"

"Just pop in, see if he needs anything, maybe chat a few minutes…I might be stuck with this one for a while; he's been eating like he's storing up for hibernation. I swear I'm about to rip my hair out."

"Don't do that. Won't help anything." Charlotte said. "I hate to say it, but weren't you the one who wanted the fourth kid?"

"Yes. And I still want him. I'm just overwhelmed, is all. It's fine when the Doctor's well. Better than fine! But with him MIA because of the sickness, it's very bad. I'm talking _bad. _On Friday morning I brushed my teeth while nursing Miles and packing two lunches—I ended up sending two sandwiches with Ellie and two containers of chopped fruit with Lottie. They were both pretty cross when they got home."

"You should really see about getting an extra set of arms attached." Charlotte commented.

Clara looked off into the distance dreamily. "My greatest dream."

Charlotte snorted. "Okay. You dream about that and nurture new life; I'll go check on your husband. Should I bring him some tea?"

"He'll _love_ _you _if you bring him some tea. We might end up sister wives."

Charlotte cringed. "No thanks; I can't even handle being a stand-in aunt most of the time, much less a second mummy. And I know Smithy's supposedly really well-endowed, but the chin just doesn't do it for me."

Clara sniffed indignantly. "Suit yourself; your loss. I love his chin."

"You love his everything and it's _disgusting_."

"He's got a great everything. But really do bring him some tea, that'll improve his mood, and that will improve _my _mood, and you'll be a hero."

"Just what I always wanted."

She was glad to try and help her friend out, but Clara didn't really need her. What Clara needed was a second Clara, because both Smithy and the baby didn't want anything to do with anyone but her. But she'd do her best, because that's what friends did. Clara had never let her down, had never refused to come to her aid. When Charlotte lost her job, Clara created an airline gaming department and hired her. She got to work from home half the week and design in-flight games for people of all ages—and she'd never been happier. Charlotte was certain she'd never be able to repay her friend, but she'd do the best she could.

* * *

"Charlotte!" The Doctor greeted gruffly, each syllable of her name cushioned by rough coughs. He propped himself up weakly when he spotted the mug in her hands. His eyes lit up hopefully. "Tea? For me?"

Charlotte sat down in the chair beside the bed and offered it to him quickly, glad to see he didn't seem disappointed to see her there.

"Earl Grey, prepared just as your wife instructed." She affirmed. The Doctor attempted to laugh, but he was interrupted by a violent coughing attack. Charlotte dove forward and snatched the mug from his hands quickly, so he wouldn't spill it all over the bed. She watched him heave and choke helplessly.

"God, this is awful," she muttered.

He glanced at her once his coughing pandered off. His forehead was moist and his hands were quivering.

"You're telling me. I feel like all my kids are sitting directly on my lungs."

"Shit, I'm sorry," Charlotte muttered sympathetically. She offered his tea back out to him. He took it shakily and took a long, slow drink, his eyes fluttering shut with pleasure.

"Best moment of the day. Almost." He mumbled into the mug.

Charlotte had known the couple long enough to know the best part.

"Second only to your wife's sympathy kisses?" She teased.

He winked tiredly. "Look who knows her Smiths."

She relaxed back into the chair and watched him sip the tea slowly, stopping every few moments to cough.

"I bet you miss the baby."

He looked up sadly, his eyes wounded. "So much. This was my first week as an at-home dad, and I'm spending it in quarantine."

Charlotte patted his forearm with pity. "Sorry, mate. I found him to be disagreeable, but I find most babies to be that way."

The Doctor frowned, like she'd personally insulted him. "Disagreeable? Why?"

"Just kept crying, wouldn't take the bottle, and he kept looking at me with his weirdly soulful eyes." She explained. She saw his offended expression and hurried to defend his infant. She often forgot how personally new parents took it if you insulted their little life-sucking gremlins. "I mean, I don't blame him! I'd prefer Clara too if I were a baby!"

The Doctor relaxed. "Oh. Yeah, me too."

Charlotte smirked. "I'll bet you would."

He laughed, but that quickly turned into a cough, and then he was hunched over at the waist again, practically shoving his lungs up his esophagus. Charlotte reached forward as if to pat his back, but she curled her fingers closed and thought twice about it. She'd felt awkward just from the thought; she couldn't imagine how awkward she'd feel if she actually did it.

She was about to make up some excuse to leave, but at that moment, the other three burst through the door. Bristol was still shirtless, but at least he had underpants on. And Ellie was still in ballet costume.

"Daddy! We came to visit!" Lottie exclaimed.

"We miss you," Ellie sniffed.

The Doctor quickly held out his hands.

"Stop! Let's visit from there, okay?" He leaned to the right and hissed an explanation to Charlotte from the corner of his mouth. "Kids breed germs. Clara would have to wash them in bleach or quarantine them if they jumped up here with me."

Charlotte risked voicing her thoughts, because Clara wasn't present.

"Don't you think Clara's being a bit…over protective? I mean, don't breastfeeding babies get the mother's antibodies and all that?" She whispered.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean they can't get sick at all, just like Clara still gets sick from time to time." The Doctor pointed out. "But yes. Paranoid. I'm a bit paranoid, too, thou—STOP! DON'T MOVE!"

Lottie froze at the foot of the bed. She frowned.

"Daddy?" She asked quietly, her eyes filled with hurt.

"Sorry, Lolly," the Doctor said quickly. He swallowed guiltily. "I can't have you lot carrying my cough germs downstairs to the baby."

Lottie fell down to her knees on the carpet. She bowed her head sadly.

"Today is not my day," she sniffed. "Mummy doesn't have time. You're covered in cough germs. It's like I'm an orphan."

Ellie fell down onto the carpet as well.

"Like Harry Potter." She whispered pitifully.

Bristol threw himself down as well, but face-first, and he didn't have much to add.

"It smells weird down here." He mumbled into the carpet.

Charlotte saw the Doctor's heart break. It was broadcast across his face. She knew he was an orphan, and she knew the logistics of how he'd became one, but she'd never actually talked to him about it or been around him when it came up. She watched him with a sick sort of interest, like you'd watch a failing experiment.

"Okay," he whispered gently. "You can come up. I've missed you, too. But don't kiss me and don't get near my face, and you'll have to wash your hands really well before you go back out there. Pneumonia can kill little babies, so it's very important that we don't spread the germs."

Charlotte tsked. "Weeeeeak," she sang underneath her breath.

"I know," he groaned. "I am. I'm weak. I can't help it."

The kids jumped up onto the bed with cries of laughter. Charlotte smiled despite herself as they all hugged their father tightly. He looked impossibly happy, grinning ear to ear, his hands patting their backs lovingly.

Of course, the kids were as clever as they were weird.

"Does that mean it can kill you?" Ellie worried. Lottie looked up in fear, her eyes wide. The Doctor quickly shook his head.

"No, no. It sometimes kills little babies and old people, but it very rarely kills young people."

Lottie looked nervous. "But you are old."

Charlotte laughed loudly. She quickly stifled it when the Doctor glared.

"I am not old! I'm young!" He argued.

He made an impressive dive towards the right when he started coughing. He hid his face into the sheet until he was done, and then he spent a long time rubbing hand sanitizer on his hands. Charlotte tried to hold her breath, but she'd never been the best at that. She stood up quickly.

"I'm going to go check on Clara," she informed them all. "Have fun!"

She hurried from the room before she could inhale anymore germs. It was eerily quiet for once in a way that Clara's house never was. It was always loud and brimming with some madness or another. Charlotte trailed her hand down the stairwell railing and took a moment to admire the house in its quiet emptiness. Without the familiar pandemonium of some child or another, Charlotte could really appreciate the small details of the home, like the framed plane tickets hanging on the stairwell wall, or the picture of Clara and the Doctor at the foot of the stairs, both impossibly young. She stopped and stared at their little faces, her smile stretching wide. She'd never been a romantic, had never wanted a sweet husband to dedicate her life to, or a love story to tell at cocktail parties, but if she had…oh, who was she kidding. Even then she wouldn't have been happy with the quaint domestic set up they had, just because it all seemed to come so purely and easily to those two. She liked challenges and struggle. She liked starting something with the bone-aching conviction that she wouldn't be able to do it, only to go above and beyond her expectations. She needed conflict to thrive, and it'd always been as simple and as complicated as that, and everything in her life reflected that need. From the messy flat she kept—so crowded it was a daily obstacle course to find what you needed—to the different men she took home and then sent away. If something was easy, why even waste your time on it?

But she also theorized that their relationship wasn't as effortless as it appeared. After all, it was often said that only those truly skilled at something could make it look easy.

She picked up the little shoes scattered about the entrance hall so Clara wouldn't have to and set them on the shoe bench. She went to the kitchen where she'd seen Clara last, and she didn't know why exactly, but she was honestly surprised to see her already starting dinner. She guessed she couldn't fathom never resting like that, but that was motherhood.

"You see this?" Clara greeted. She turned to show her the baby, still attached. Clara had moved him to the newborn carrier. "Unbelievable."

Charlotte shook her head. "God, it's like he's a bottomless pit. Are you sure you're even lactating?"

"Very sure. At this point he might as well just be back in my womb, seeing as though we're never parted. And just a few minutes ago Bristol asked if I had time to hug him. Can you believe that? He had to ask if his mum had time to _hug _him. I wanted to stab myself with a barbeque fork. So that's another little bullet point on the anxiety list. The other kids feeling neglected. At this point it's like a ten foot scroll. Even if I could sleep, I don't think I would."

Charlotte frowned. She shuffled over to Clara side and dutifully patted her shoulder, hoping that offered a bit of comfort. She thought to her grandmother in quick, pained flashes, just long enough to recall the way she used to hold Charlotte's chin before she'd give her a pep talk. Somehow, that firm grip had felt like the most loving touch, but Charlotte figured Clara wouldn't feel the same way. She switched to a topic-change. She peered at the tiny baby and poked his itty stomach gently, allowing her curiosity to swell and override any previous thoughts she'd had.

"Where is it all _going_?" She whispered in amazement. "He's going to get chubby. There's no doubt. Which is good news, because chubby babies are at least fairly cute."

Clara glared. "He's cute already."

"Yeah…of course." Charlotte agreed quickly. She turned her head to the side. "Pull him off for a moment. I want to see something. For science."

"That sounds like a really weird and heavyhanded come on." Clara said. She pulled the spoon from the saucepan and tasted whatever she was cooking. She scrunched up her nose in disgust. "Ugh, Dear God, no. Tastes like wet paper."

"If I wanted to make a pass at you, I'd be better than that. Give me some credit." Charlotte teased. "I'm just wondering, if we covered his eyes, could he make his way back just by smell? Instincts and all that. I'm thinking about getting another degree, this time in human sciences."

She reached forward to cover the baby's eyes, but Clara smacked her hand away.

"Don't torment my newborn!" She said. She held the spoon out. "Taste this. What do you think?"

Charlotte took the spoon and tentatively tasted what she guessed was supposed to be some sort of soup. She grimaced.

"Oh, yikes," she gasped. "Bad. Is that cream of fish?"

Clara sighed in disappointment. "No. It's supposed to be chicken noodle."

"Oh. Um…maybe a bit more…no, truthfully Clara, you're going to have to start over." Charlotte told her. Clara sighed.

"I figured as much. I've ordered pizza for the kids but the Doctor won't feel up to that."

"You could put his pizza into a blender and then put it into a cup." Charlotte suggested, only half-teasing.

Clara shuddered. "That would only work for someone like you, who drinks lettuce and strawberry smoothies."

"It was spinach and banana today." Charlotte pointed out. When Miles pulled off his mother, Charlotte hurried forward to settle her hand over his tiny eyes, but Clara smacked her hand away with the wooden spoon. Charlotte sighed. Honestly, what was the point in having a little human if you weren't going to do some friendly experiments?

"God. I wouldn't even make baby food out of that stuff—mixed together, anyway." Clara grimaced. She let out a long sigh of relief a moment later. She looked down at the baby quickly, her eyes alight with cautious hope. They both watched as his eyes slowly drifted shut. Clara didn't move for two full minutes as he drifted off to sleep, but once his breathing was even, she quickly refastened her bra.

"Thank _God_." She whispered. She leaned back against the stove and pressed her face into her hands. "I can't wait until the Doctor is better."

Charlotte leaned against the stove beside her friend and patted her arm.

"You'll get through it. You always do. But I do think this should be your last one." She suggested gently. "Any more and I won't be able to keep the names straight. I only just stopped calling Bristol Brixham. And earlier I called Miles Milo, and I'm not even sure at this point if it was a nickname or if I honestly thought his name was Milo."

"Perhaps I should make them wear nametags. But no, it _is_ the last," Clara said, but her voice was a bit too casual. She shot straight up and gasped. "Shit! Where are the others?! Are they still watching the film?!"

"They're with the Doctor, but before you freak out! It's fine. He's not breathing or coughing on them and they're going to wash really well before they come downstairs."

Clara's look of horror faded to a more reserved look of fear. "I hope so. Because as much as this baby is sucking the life from me, I can't even imagine—" her voice broke and she stopped talking abruptly. Charlotte watched her rub over her eyes tiredly. "I saw this thing on the news a few weeks ago. This seven-week-old baby from Islington died from pneumonia. I keep remembering the interview with his mum and the picture of him…" she trailed off. Charlotte frowned as Clara reached up to wipe at her eyes. She wanted to flee the room as fast as she could, but she wouldn't do that. "God, I'm a mess. I'm sorry. It's the weird off-balance hormones and the lack of sleep. I cried for two hours last night, convinced the Doctor was going to die. But in my defense, it was four in the morning, and I hadn't slept in twenty hours."

"It's fine," Charlotte reassured her. She looked down at the sleeping infant. When he was unconscious, it was easy to understand why he was such a precious thing to his parents. He was wholly innocent and dependent on them, and he had unlimited potential. And Charlotte supposed he could be cute, when he wanted to be, but it was always a slightly begrudging thought.

"He'll be fine." Charlotte added. "I mean, they'll both be fine. The baby and Smithy." She wrapped her arm around her friend's shoulders and squeezed quickly. She dropped her arm after that. "Come on, cheer up."

Clara smiled. "You're right. Thanks, Charlotte. I'm going to go put him in the basket. I'll be right back."

Charlotte peered at the chicken soup recipe while her friend was gone, trying to figure out how on _earth_ Clara had gotten it so wrong. She was still bent over when her friend set something down on the countertop. She straightened and looked down at the box, wrapped carefully in blue wrapping paper.

"What's this?" Charlotte asked.

"I'm a shit friend. I meant to give it to you a week ago, but with the storms and the new baby and then my husband's sudden retirement from neurosurgery…I'm sorry." Clara said.

Charlotte pulled the box to her gingerly.

"It's not my birthday." She reminded Clara. But she knew what the gift was for. She just didn't want to think about it.

"I know." Clara said gently.

Charlotte leaned against the counter and pulled the paper back carefully. She felt her eyes searing with tears when she lifted the top of the box, but she quickly repressed them away. She pulled the two-part frame from the box and looked up at her friend in disbelief.

"Where did you find this?" She asked.

The left frame had a picture of her and her grandmother, and the right had a letter her grandmother had sent her when she was only twelve years old. It'd gotten lost in Charlotte's hoard sometime last year. She'd cleaned her house for the first time in years in her search for it, but she never did locate it. She stared at her grandmother's boxy handwriting and scanned her eyes over her articulate Russian, stumbling every few words, but she understood the gist. Charlotte didn't feel intensely for many people, but she had loved her babushka with most every part of her heart.

"Remember last month when you asked me to plant-sit?" Clara asked.

Charlotte nodded, her eyes still on the letter. The paper was wrinkled and yellowing in some places, and it had a few rips around the edges, but it was the letter she'd longed for. And at the bottom, her grandmother had written: I fly to you on wings of love.

Charlotte batted at her emotions and managed to keep them just below the surface, but she could feel tears sloshing around in her heart. It made it heavy.

"Well," Clara started. "I found it in a box with all your papers from Grade 9."

Charlotte licked her lips and tore her eyes from her grandmother's face. She stared at her friend in disbelief.

"How long did it take you to find it? I looked everywhere."

"An entire day of looking. The ink had gotten something spilled on it and it'd blurred, so I had to get it professionally restored, but I had some trouble finding someone who actually knew written Russian well enough to fix it correctly. And then he was late finishing it, but the day he called to let me know it was done, I was giving birth. I couldn't get it until two days after." She explained.

Charlotte laughed even though she wanted to cry. She pictured her hugely pregnant friend weaving through the maze of her home and it made her almost giddy with affection.

"Thank you," she said softly. Clara smiled in response, but it faded a moment later. She looked at her with serious concern.

"How are you, Charlotte?" She asked her gently. "I know you don't like to talk about stuff like this. But…I've got to ask, you know? I need you to know that I'm here and all that usual soppy stuff."

"I'm fine. Better. Or getting there." She replied honestly. "I like being here. This chaos helps keep my mind off it all."

Clara smiled kindly. "I was hoping for that."

Charlotte crossed her arms. "Are you telling me that you invited me over to help me, not because you needed my amazing childcare skills?"

"Of course not." Clara teased.

Charlotte thought about the way the Doctor had looked so sad when he said he was missing his baby. She thought about how gently Clara kissed her kids' foreheads, even now when they weren't so breakable anymore. She thought about the time the Doctor defended her in a bar, and the time Clara spent a week helping her take care of her dad after he had his hip replaced. She looked at her seriously.

"You and your husband have the biggest hearts out of anyone I've ever known." She declared.

Hidden underneath all that chaos, there was a wealth of love.


	4. Human

_PART 4/8 | ELLABELL | RATED T  
_

**Human**

* * *

"Do you feel in control?"

She looked up at her instructor, bleary eyed from the sweat dripping down into her eyes. The muscles in her calves were tight and searing. Her left shoulder throbbed with aching pain, her abs were convulsing from her never-ending position, and she could feel a muscle practically ripping in her groin. Balanced in attitude on her left foot—en pointe—for an endless time period was painful enough to convince Ellabell that it could very well be used as torture for hostages. Because of that, it was easy to tell the truth.

"Yes."

The instructor took her extended right hand gently. She held her long fingers and slowly pulled. Ellie knew it was coming, and she tried to tense her muscles to counteract the pressure, but it was all too much all at once. Her body shuddered and broke. Her knees folded up underneath her like soggy cardboard. From her position on the floor, she rounded her shoulders and gasped.

"It was an illusion." Her instructor told her gently. "You're only in control when you're anticipating the moves of others."

Ellabell reached up with shivering hands and wiped at her damp face. She turned her head up towards the instructor and tried not to focus on the stinging pain of her inner thigh or the grinding ache in her left ankle. She could have defended herself, but she was far too tired to feel defensive.

"I know. I was frightened." She admitted. She'd been afraid that changing any position of her body would send her toppling over. But that'd happened anyway.

Her teacher reached down and took Ellie's hands. She gently pulled her up and then cupped her shoulders carefully. Her eyes studied Ellabell's.

"If you're truly in control, you have nothing to be frightened of."

The words burrowed individually into her heart. They planted themselves there and Ellie felt them sprout and bloom. Like many things in her life, they became more than they ought to.

* * *

In Ellabell's ideal world, the universe was composed of straight lines and undeviating minds. There was a rule for everything and everyone followed them. Just as there were exact degrees to bend your knee during attitudes, there were precise manners in which the world behaved.

The fact that the real world was nothing like her ideal could have easily be seen as the root to all her anxiety.

* * *

She cherished things that _worked_ to the point of utter consumption.

She knew the world outside was chaotic and fierce, but her world was tidy and delicate. She cushioned her mind with French conjugations and Physics equations, with rigorous ballet practices and the infallibility of her family's love. When faced with things that wreaked havoc in her heart—crimes on the news, winds that shook the window panes, snarling dogs, people cursing furiously—she simply turned it off. And she crawled into a warm corner in her mind. And there she was filled with all the things in her world that made sense, all the neat things that followed rules, the things she'd stolen and pushed down into stained glass bottles and corked. She kept them lining the shelf of her soul.

There was no issue with the way it all worked. When her comfort was contained in something as breakable as glass, it was only natural that she'd still feel crippling anxiety.

The issue was that no one else needed a safe world in their head. No one else had a problem absorbing the violence of everyday life. No one else seemed to be as scared as she was. And so she decided at the young age of ten that there was something deeply wrong with her. Once you make up your mind that you're broken, very little can lift the weight from your heart.

It was overwhelming until it wasn't. She learned to accept that she was messed up, and once she did that, she decided to move on. And it was easy enough to do once she started secondary school, because she had plenty of other things to paralyze her with fear. But she couldn't help but wonder, each time she was mid-anxiety attack, why she was the only one who just couldn't cope.

* * *

This lesson was finally over after that. Ellie still wasn't sure what she'd learnt.

She was so out of it afterwards that she failed to noticed she'd unwound her pointe shoe ribbons only to begin rewinding them again. It was hours past the time her lessons normally ended and her dad had already come in three times to ask what the delay was. She had more revision and homework to do than she wanted to think about, but she wasn't sure how she'd realistically get any of it done with how exhausted she was. She pinched her arm and shook her head, and then she quickly yanked her shoes off and stuffed them into her bag. She pulled shorts on over her tights and leotard and shoved her aching feet into her shoes, eager to head home. She was so looped in her own jumpy thoughts that she practically ran right into her father as she exited the building. He reached forward and steadied her.

"I'm eager to get home too, but let's not plow down dear Dad."

She dropped her bag—not at all surprised when her father immediately grabbed it—and then pressed her face into his medical coat. She wrapped her arms around him and felt her chest seize with panic.

"Oh, I'm getting a hug. I never get hugs anymore." Her dad said softly, surprised. He reached down and patted her hair tentatively. "Bad lesson?"

"Trying lesson." She admitted. "I've got so much work left to do tonight and I'm exhausted. And starving."

"All that and look at you—still standing! You've endured." He said proudly. "I think that calls for Wahaca."

Ellie smiled. "You think everything that's mildly celebratory calls for Wahaca."

"Doesn't it?" He asked in confusion. "Come on. Let's get something to eat and I'll help you with your homework."

Ellabell knew he must have had plenty of things to do that were more pressing than helping with Year 11 assignments, but he was calm and patient, like there was nothing else he'd rather be doing. Ellie sometimes felt she'd gotten everyone's quota of anxiety somehow.

* * *

"In our last ten minutes of class, I'd like you to turn to your partners and discuss the motive behind our heroine. En _français_, s'il vous plaît!"

"Thank _God_," Pauline hissed. She lifted her head from her opened book and turned towards Ellabell. "Could this class _be _any duller?"

Ellie shut her book neatly and turned slightly in her seat. She traced her forefinger over a scar in the tabletop as she replied. She was deeply fond of French, but she didn't want to irritate her friend, who didn't have the same knack for it.

"It could be history," she hedged. "That'd be much duller."

Pauline reached up and covered her ears. She squirmed in her chair as she did, looking for a moment like she was having some sort of epileptic fit.

"Don't even mention that word! I live in an H-word free world until Thursdays!"

Ellie slid over onto the edge of her chair and reached over quickly. She ran her fingers gently through Pauline's curls, attempting to undo any accidental damage.

"Sorry—I won't mention it again." She vowed seriously.

Pauline shook her finger at her. "Better not."

They were giggling when their teacher approached. She looked down at them sternly. Ellie quickly dropped her smile and turned towards Pauline. After ranting in French about the heroine's history of greedy dependence on the neediness of others for at least three minutes, her teacher walked away, and Ellie let out a relieved sigh.

"Honestly, I missed every bit of that." Pauline admitted. She set her elbow on the table and rested the side of her face in her hand. She yawned deeply, uncaring to the annoyed look the teacher shot her way. "So why was Miss Punctual late to assembly this morning?"

Ellabell felt her stomach clench in guilt. She'd been working very hard to forget about that.

"Why do you think? None of my siblings could get out of bed on time if the bed was on _fire_." She said irritably. She looked at her friend nervously. "Do you think Mr. Horn noticed?"

Pauline grinned uncertainly at her. "Erm…no. Definitely not." She lied.

Ellie reached up and ran her fingernails along her scalp, utterly horrified. She buried her fingers into her bun and pulled, yanking the hair elastic free. She anxiously ran her fingers through her hair to tidy it afterwards though, immediately regretting the action. Her stomach gained the weight of another anxiety as she fretted about not being able to perfect the updo again before dance lessons that afternoon.

She scraped her hair back with her hands so fiercely that her eyes began to water. "I was at dance lessons until eight last night. I didn't get to finish my Geography homework and you know what Ms. Carter does to students who don't do their homework."

"Don't fret, ma petite cuillère! If you get kicked out of class, we can go for coffee!" Pauline reassured her.

Ellie wrinkled her nose. "Your…tiny spoon?"

Pauline's eyes darted quickly to the right.

"Yes. That's what I meant, of course," she insisted. Ellabell reached over and patted her hand.

"Don't worry. We'll get you some tutoring before exams."

She felt less anxious as they left class. She told herself it was because there was a good chance she'd be able to finish her Geography homework during break, but she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was just because Pauline. If she did get kicked out of class, it'd be horrifying, but she'd get to spend more time with her. She gripped her books close to her chest and smiled down at her toes.

She rummaged around her locker as Pauline chatted with one of their friends. She'd only just grabbed her Geography book when she heard the eerily familiar sound of high heels clicking against the hard floor. It reverberated around the metal locker and seemed to rebound inside Ellie's head. She straightened by instinct, but then she reminded herself where she was.

"Ella," Pauline called curiously. "Isn't that your mum?"

Ellie's eyes widened. She straightened and yanked her head out of her locker, turning to look in the direction Pauline was staring. And she knew her first instinct had been correct. She'd heard her mother's angry walk.

"Yes," Ellie whispered in shock. She looked at Pauline, her eyes wide. "They phoned my mum. They actually phoned her! Normally they just ring my dad! Oh, Bristol is in so much trouble." She said gleefully.

She watched her mum walk angrily down the crowded hallway—her shoulders pushed back and her ponytail swishing behind her—and she felt an honest twinge of pity for her brother. But it quickly faded.

Pauline perked up at the mere mention of her brother.

"Bristol? What? What about him?" She asked. She caught herself a moment later. She cleared her throat lightly and reached up to flick a piece of hair out of her face. "I mean. I'm curious, naturally. What did he do?"

Ellabell shrugged. "Dunno. But he did something. My mum's supposed to be at this big conference thing at the Strand—she's been preparing for it for _weeks . _The fact that she's here means my brother has truly outdone himself."

Pauline twirled her hair around her forefinger. "You don't know that. Perhaps _you're_ in trouble. Or Lottie or Miles."

Ellabell shot her a look. She and Miles were never the ones in trouble at school.

"Okay. Perhaps Lottie's in trouble." She corrected.

"Lottie's too busy revising to do anything wrong." Ellabell replied. She shut her locker and crossed her arms. She stared down the hallway in the direction her mum disappeared. She nodded. "It's my brother, without a doubt. He's done something so bad that they called my mum and dragged her down here during her presentation. Bristol will be lucky to make it out of the headteacher's office alive."

"Poor Bristol," Pauline whispered, horrified. Ellabell shut her eyes in annoyance.

"Come on. We've got twenty minutes left of break. Let's go see what's going on." Ellabell decided.

Pauline hung back.

"Actually, I was going to go meet up with Leon." She admitted. "I'll see you at lunch?"

Ellabell felt her throat narrow with an emotion she didn't want to put a name to. She nodded quickly.

"Yeah, of course. Have fun!" She said.

She waited until Pauline was halfway down the hall, and then she slammed her back into the lockers. She shut her eyes and groaned.

* * *

The first time she fell in love, it was an illusion, but she believed in it. It was with a boy named Timothy and he didn't have a polite or sensible bone in his body, but she'd handcrafted a version of him that she fancied, and that was enough for her. When it was over, it was over, and she wasn't too sad about it. She'd enjoyed it while it lasted.

And then she slipped off the edge of something that was supposed to be a friendship. She cracked her head open on the way down.

Regardless of how the relationship went or ended, she never forgot the words Pauline had said when she first told her she had a date with Timothy. Her mind had moved in pirouettes. She'd wanted to see Pauline thrilled. She'd wanted to see her jump up and down, her face stretched in a huge grin with her hair floating up in the air behind her. But not for the reasons she thought, and it only took one sentence from her to bring that heavy realization hurdling towards Ellie.

"This is so exciting! Having a boyfriend is the best, Ella, I can't even explain it! There's absolutely nothing better in the entire world! No one can make you happier!"

Well, she definitely felt like no one.

* * *

She felt less excited as she trudged down the hall towards the headteacher's office. She'd wanted to find her mum out of some selfish desire to watch the carnage, but now she wanted to find her because her heart was pounding with anxiety, and she felt like she might cry. She wouldn't let herself, of course. There was no reason she should cry over her best friend meeting up with her boyfriend during the break. That was normal. That was what girls her age did. It was what she'd wanted to do, until she became friends with Pauline, and then she didn't much care to date anyone because she preferred spending her Friday nights with her. Because they were really close friends (or that's what Ellie told herself ceaselessly, anyway). And she wasn't jealous. She was just…worried. That her friend would start spending all her time with Leon and then wouldn't be around any longer. She was almost sure of it.

She slowed outside the door to the headteacher's office. She peeked through the window just to make sure her mum wasn't already in the office, but she deflated quickly, because she didn't spot her anywhere. She hadn't realized how badly she'd wanted to see her until that moment. She felt like her lungs had been crushed for an extended moment in time.

"There you are!"

And just like that, the air was back.

Ellie turned and smiled at her mum as she hurried down the hallway towards her, three brown paper bags clutched in her hands. Ellie smiled into her mother's shoulder as she pulled her into a hug. Clara pulled back and looked at Ellie in relief.

"I went to your next class, but you weren't there." Her mum said. "And then I wasn't sure where you'd be during break. I tried the library. Didn't find you, but I did find your sister. She was halfway through calling a school book some very inventive curse words." She separated one paper bag from the rest and offered it to Ellie. "Scone?"

Ellie took the bag, her smile now a full grin. The headteacher was particular about parents roaming around the school, but he'd never said a word to Clara about it. Her dad said the headteacher was terrified of her, which might have explained his reluctance to ever actually call their mum, unless the situation demanded it.

"You brought us all scones? I thought someone was in trouble. You were angry-walking." She said. She opened the bag and peered down at the blueberry scone. She was debating whether or not to save it for lunch when her mum replied.

"Oh, someone's in trouble, all right. Your brother won't see anything outside his bedroom walls for a long time. But I figured as long as I'm coming down here, I might as well nick some of the scones they had out at the conference. Can you give one of these to Miles when you see him?" She held out another bag. Ellabell took it and twisted her school bag around so she could place her brother's and hers inside.

"Sure, but what did Bristol _do_?" Ellie asked. She glanced back up at her mum.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Carl's still talking to him; he's supposed to call me back when he's done." She explained. She'd gone from borderline cheerful to frustrated in a millisecond. Ellie did not envy her brother in any way. "I don't why he acts like this."

"I do." Ellie said bitterly. "He's reckless and desperate for attention."

Her mum turned around and leaned back against the wall. Ellie looked at her and thought she looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen, and she'd seen her mother in some very tiring moments. She trained her tired eyes on her daughter and examined her for a moment. Her eyes grew soft.

"Are you all right? You look anxious. And have you been messing with your hair? It looks like your punishing your scalp— that can't be comfortable. Here, let me fix it—" she set the leftover bag on the floor and then straightened, reaching forward to redo Ellie's hair. Ellabell felt her cheeks sear as she jumped back from her mum.

"Mum! No!" Ellie hissed. She glanced nervously around the hallway. "I'm fifteen! You can't do my hair for me at school!"

Her mum blinked.

"Right." She said. She lowered her hands and quickly stooped over to pick the bag back up. "Right, of course, right. I'm sorry."

Ellie glanced around the hall casually, just to make sure no one had seen. She was already teased for following the rules, the way she spoke, and even her habit of completing homework. The last thing she needed was someone seeing her mum babying her in the hall. All her efforts to be seen as a borderline-rebel fell short. It turned out that painting her nails when they weren't supposed be didn't really count for much when she painted them clear. She'd walked halfway to school with her blouse untucked and her skirt rolled up, but she'd fixed them before she even walked through the doors, and she hadn't had the guts to try it again. It made anxious snakes constrict around her heart.

"He should be ready for me any minute now." Her mum sighed, her eyes locked on the headteacher's office door. Ellie felt her stomach drop at those words, even though she hadn't been very forthcoming the entire conversation. She was beginning to feel frustrated, the way she'd felt for two years now. She got that way whenever half of her wanted to tell her mum everything and the other half didn't. She never knew which one was right. Her friends said telling your parents things made life loads more complicated than it needed to be, but Ellabell herself felt _not _telling your parents made things worse, because then they couldn't help. But what could she even tell her mum if she wanted to be honest? _I'm anxious because my friend has a boyfriend and maybe I don't want her to? I think I care for her in a way she doesn't care for me, and I can't stop it? What does this make me? _She shifted uneasily at the mere thought of saying those words to anyone but herself.

"There's that look again. Are you sure you're all right?" Her mum pressed gently.

Ellie turned her focus back to her, and when she did, the look her mum was giving her was nothing short of x-raying. She panicked, and when she panicked, the terrible rambling began. Her mum always said it was one of the more quirky traits she'd picked up from her father.

"Just—you know. The usual. Geography, GSCEs, dance rehearsals, and—history! Always history. Can't get it straight. Why did they send opium to China? I just don't know. Should I know? I probably should. And I don't. Wonder what that says about me? I pay attention in class, of course I do, I just—" her words broke off with a ragged gasp as her eyes widened. "Oh, _fudging—something!_ I've got—oh, no, no, I have to go, I completely forgot, I'm going to get kicked out of class, how did I _forget_, I—"

She stopped as her mum reached forward and took her hand.

"All right. Deep breaths. You're doing fine." She reassured her.

But she was not doing fine. She was messing up. She was breaking the rules, she was out of control. She could feel the truth of that working its way up from her gut, into her heart, up her throat. Her throat seared and then it was in her eyes and she could do nothing but blink against the burning.

"No, it's not, I'm not." She realized. She could feel her hands shaking at her side. "I need to go."

Her mum frowned, concerned. "Ellie—"

She stopped as the door to the office opened. "Mrs. Oswald-Smith?"

Ellie was too busy hurrying away, but when she glanced back briefly, she saw her mum chained in place, staring after her.

"Yes, I'm—could you just hang on for…one moment? There's something I…El!"

"Due to the nature of this situation, I'd prefer if you'd come discuss the consequences with us now."

Perhaps her mother had argued some more, but Ellie didn't hear it, because she'd turned the corner after that moment. She raced up and up the winding white stairs, her chest hot and full and crushing. She didn't know where she was going, she just knew she had to flee, had to go somewhere. After ending up two floors up on the opposite side of the school, she knew there was no chance anyone could find her, much less her mum. She stepped into an empty classroom and dropped her bag to the floor, forgetting for a moment that Miles' scone was inside. She slammed the door after her and then collapsed down beside her bag, her shaking fingers going for the zipper. When she opened it up to find both her and her brother's scones in about a hundred crumbled pieces—thanks to her school books—she crumbled, too.

She couldn't have told anyone why, but she couldn't breathe, and it was suddenly the combination of a million irrational things. Things she wasn't even aware of, things that must have been hiding inside of her all along. She must've had moments like these over thirty times that year, moments where she was huddled on the floor gasping, but she'd never felt so desolate before. Had never felt so stupid.

* * *

"So it's like you can't breathe?" Pauline asked. She propped her chin in her upturned palm and looked at Ellie curiously. "That can't be okay. Have you seen a doctor?"

Ellie trailed her fingertips over hanger after hanger, her back to her friend. She pulled a blue dress out and then put it right back.

"No. It's not like I'm sick. It's just…I'm scared a lot. Really, really scared." She said defensively.

"Oh." Pauline shifted on the bed. "What are you scared about?"

"Everything and nothing. I don't know. Sometimes it just…I worry so much about so many things. I don't feel like…there's enough of me. I want to be bigger than I am." She flushed in embarrassment almost immediately. She pulled a hanger free from the wardrobe and turned, hoping to get the topic off herself. "What about this?"

Pauline traced her forefinger over her eyebrow thoughtfully, still sprawled out on top of Ellie's bed on her stomach. She was looking at Ellie with an expression she couldn't place. Intensity, perhaps.

"Try it on." She prompted. She kept speaking as Ellabell turned her back to change into the top. "It's kind of mad to hear you say that. Because you're the only person I know who has their shit together. You're more responsible than my mum."

Ellie straightened the top and pulled her hair free from the collar. She spun around and looked at Pauline uncertainly.

"Yeah? Well, it's an illusion. I don't have anything together. Not really." She admitted.

Pauline smiled. "You're beautiful, Ella. Timothy's going to stare."

She felt the tension in her spine level. She grinned in relief.

"Really? You don't think it's too…frilly?"

"No. Not at all." She reassured her. "And you don't need to be scared about anything. You're smart, you're talented, you're pretty. You've got parents that actually give a fuck about you. Lighten up. Don't take things so seriously."

Her smile faltered. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Lighten up.

She would have, if only she didn't feel so heavy.

* * *

She spent the entire class period hidden away, and then lunch too, even after she got herself under control. She drew interlocking triangles on the smart board until she felt almost calm, if not tired, and then she picked her bag back up. She tossed the crumbled scones and left the classroom. She was hardly present in P.E. and spent most her time in ICT reading, since she'd already finished their current project a week early. She went by her Geography teacher's classroom after school, even though she felt like she might vomit, but she was surprised when she handed her a copy of the classwork she missed without her even having to say anything.

"Your mum came by and let me know about the migraine. I hope you're feeling better." She said. She said it how she always spoke—monotone and cold—but Ellie grasped the papers and felt like she really meant it. She smiled uncertainly and pushed away her guilt

"I am. Thank you. I promise I'll have all my work ready to turn in tomorrow."

"All right. Have a good night, Ellabell."

"You too."

She never knew how, but her mum always knew exactly how to take care of her.

* * *

She usually met up with Miles and Lottie after school, but it was only Miles when she got to their usual meeting place.

"Where's Lottie?" She asked.

Miles looked at her oddly, like he still hadn't quite joined the conversation. "Ellie, do you think it's strange to like natural disasters?"

She looked down at him curiously.

"No…no, I wouldn't say _strange_. Why?"

"Because Tony says it's strange and _I'm_ strange." He replied. He scratched his ear uncertainly. "But I think it's interesting."

Ellie was arrested with a momentary feeling of affection for her youngest brother. She stopped looking around her for her sister and looked back at Miles. It was his first year at secondary school and he was still having some adjustment problems.

"Tony's wrong. Nothing you like is strange." She said firmly. When he beamed, she smiled back. "So where's Lottie? Should we wait for her or go on home?"

"Go on. Lottie's with Enzo. I think Bristol's going to hide in the school all night. I saw him sleeping underneath a table in the library. Did you know Mum was at school today? I saw her. She was wearing her nice red outfit, the important one. I wonder what she was doing here because she had a conference. I wish she would have—"

"I wasn't _sleeping_," Bristol interrupted crossly. Ellie turned and spotted him walking up, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He was—once again—wearing a Ramones T-shirt, but Ellie guessed he wouldn't even try changing back into his uniform on the way home. There was no fooling their parents any longer. Once he joined them, they all set off towards home.

"I was relaxing." He finished. He was looking particularly sulky, something that meant he must've had a terrible time in the headteacher's office. "What's it to you, anyway, Milo?"

Miles shot an annoyed look towards Ellie.

"I asked him." Ellabell snapped. "Don't be rude."

Bristol stopped walking. "I'll be rude if I _want _to be rude."

Ellie layered false sugar over her words. "Here's an idea, baby brother. You could walk ten feet behind us until you learn how to be pleasant company. Why aren't you with the prick posse, anyway?"

Bristol glowered. "Fuck off, Ellabell. You think I want to walk home with you? Mum told me I had to come back to ours right after school."

Ellie crossed her arms. "So what'd you do?"

Bristol resumed walking. Ellie quickly matched his pace.

"None of your business."

"Actually, I think it's the entire family's business."

"Actually, I think it's mine."

"Um, technically, I'd argue that it's communal business because it affects all the members of our household because—"

"Shut _up_, Miles."

"Well it _does…_"

Ellabell grew fed up with Bristol.

"Fine. But whatever you did, you really upset Mum."

He was quiet. He didn't say anything else for another minute.

"Like sad upset?" He asked. When Ellie ignored him, he grew a bit more worried. "El. Sad upset?"

She felt letting him worry about it the entire walk home was as good a punishment as any.

* * *

The house was eerily quiet when they arrived home. They hung their bags up and looked around nervously. Silence in their house was always a warning sign of terrible proportions.

"Fucking hell," Bristol groaned. He threw his head back and shut his eyes tightly in chagrin. "Haven't I been told off enough today?"

He must have cursed it. Right after he spoke, they heard the floor creak above them. They all looked up when they heard the footsteps nearing the stairs, but it wasn't who they expected when the person finally came into view.

Poppy set her hand on the railing and stared at Bristol. After a moment of observation, she shook her head sadly.

"You are going to be toasted like a marshmallow." She informed him. And then she turned on the spot and walked back to her room.

When Ellie glanced towards her brother, she saw he was highly considering running for it, but the door opened from behind them before he could get to it. For the first time Ellie could remember, their father did not look pleased to be home early. He was expressionless and cold as he walked into the front hall.

"Go into the kitchen." He told Bristol. When Bristol opened his mouth to protest, their dad glowered spectacularly. "_Now_."

Bristol took heavy steps towards the kitchen, all but stomping. Once he'd disappeared through the doorway, the Doctor looked to Miles and Ellie. He offered them a strained smile.

"How was school?" He asked.

They tripped over themselves in their haste to answer.

"Good!"

"Great!"

"I learned a lot about tsunamis!"

He beamed genuinely. His shoulders relaxed.

"Brilliant! I'm glad to hear that. Homework and then Cluedo tonight!" He declared. He patted the tops of their heads as he passed and then disappeared into the kitchen after Bristol.

Ellie and Miles locked horrified eyes.

"No. No Cluedo. _No_!" Ellie whispered. "This is punishment! We're getting punished for whatever Bristol did!"

Miles sat down heavily on the bottom step. He rested his chin in his hand and huffed.

"I hate playing with dad. He always wins." He grumbled.

"Or he and Mum get into it and then they drag us into the argument." Ellie added sourly. "Hate it. Let's take a long time on our homework so we don't have to play."

"Okay. But maybe we should eavesdrop first."

"Good thinking."

Luckily for them, the drama started right after the Doctor entered the kitchen. And it wasn't lacking in volume.

"What do you have to say for yourself? No, you know what, I don't want to hear it right now. I think for once it'd be good for you to listen to us, since you obviously haven't been doing that for the past fourteen years."

Miles whistled lowly. Bristol rushed to defend himself.

"I have been—!"

Their mum interrupted him. Ellie could tell from her curt words that she was the living embodiment of cross. "Your dad is speaking."

"Your mum rang me today to tell me you were almost expelled. I thought: oh, not my son. He must've done something in self-defense, or to help somebody. Surely he wouldn't do anything terrible just for the fun of it. And then she informed me that you _set a bloody lunch table on fire_! Do you have any idea how _stupid_ that is?! Do you have any idea how many people could've been injured, how quickly it could've gotten out of hand?! You're bloody lucky that someone thought to use the extinguisher before you burned down the entire sodding school! Where on _earth _did you get the idea that—"

"It was an accident! I already told Mum that! I told you, Mum! I wasn't trying to—"

"You were sitting at a wooden table setting little strips of _alcohol soaked paper _on fire on top of it! What did you _think _would happen?!" Their mum exclaimed incredulously.

"I just thought it'd char it up a bit! I didn't think it'd-whoosh! How was I to know Martin spilt alcohol all over the table beforehand?!"

"Here's a better question. Why did you have a lighter and alcohol in the first place? At school, no less?"

Their dad's question rendered Bristol speechless for one of the first times Ellie could ever remember.

"I…just did. But I didn't nick the alcohol from the lab. Ben did. I swear."

"If I find out you're smoking, I'll—"

"What? Ground me? I think I'm already there, Dad."

"Sure. Smile about this. It's all very funny."

"Yeah, kind of is. And everyone thought it was funny when the table caught fire, too."

"Well, that's great, Bristol. You had a right laugh with Martin and whoever else, and meanwhile, I'm getting called down to your school. I had to go to the counselor's office after our talk with the headteacher. I've got Shelley Ledbetter asking me if you're _neglected! _If we drink at home! If my husband ever acts violently towards me or my children! If you've been diagnosed with any mental disorders! Not to mention the fact that you could've been hurt! You could have been severely burned!"

"What's it matter, anyway."

"_Excuse_ me? I'm sorry?"

"If I got hurt I wouldn't have to go to school anymore."

The eerie quiet returned. Ellie shifted uncomfortably and looked to Miles. He was staring at the doorway with a confused expression.

"Why…" their mum trailed off, as if unsure what to say. "What's wrong with school?"

"What _isn't _wrong with school."

"Okay. What _isn't _wrong with school?" Their dad challenged.

"My friends." Bristol answered shortly.

"Oh dear God," Lottie whispered. She stepped through the front door slowly, her ex-boyfriend Enzo on her heels. Lottie kept the doorknob turned as she shut the door, so it wouldn't interrupt the tragedy playing out in the kitchen. Once it was shut quietly behind her, she turned to Ellie. "What's happening?"

"Bristol set a table on fire at school. Did you know that? Where were we when this happened? Why am I _always _out of the loop?"

Lottie gaped. "That was _him_?!"

Ellie frowned. "Oh, come on! You're in sixth form and you know, but I don't?!"

Enzo looked increasingly lost, and it only got worse when the loud voices increased in volume. He looked to Lottie uncertainly.

"What is wrong?" He asked.

"Oh, my brother lit up the lunch tables. Remember when we saw all that smoke? He—what? French?"

He nodded after looking at her oddly for a few moments.

"Oh, um," she fumbled with her French as she tried to explain. Ellie looked away politely and tried not to interrupt and correct her sister, but after a few moments of frustrated fumbling (she couldn't remember the verb she needed), Lottie turned to her anyway. "Ellabell?"

Ellie glanced back at Enzo. She explained the situation and withheld laughter as his eyebrows rose practically to his scalp. He looked more shocked than he did the time Ellie spent a good five hours talking to him all about Lottie's most embarrassing childhood moments. He turned to Lottie and wasted no time expressing his thoughts on the situation.

"I want to go upstairs."

Lottie intertwined their fingers. "You and me both. Bye, El, Miles. Have fun eavesdropping."

It wasn't too much fun, as they'd missed a good portion of the conversation.

"—smart. You're entirely capable, son. I know it's frustrating not to understand something, but that doesn't make you stupid."

"Well. I feel stupid."

"You know you aren't, and we're always here to help. But you can't do things like this. Do you understand? There are consequences to your actions. You're lucky there wasn't a bigger consequence, like someone getting hurt."

"I know."

"And, love, if you're having this much trouble with ICT, why didn't you come to me?" Clara asked. She sounded hurt. "I could've helped you."

"I don't know. I didn't think you'd understand."

"Well, I would have. More than anything, it worries me that you'd rather act out than come to us when you're upset."

"Maybe I don't want to have heart-to-hearts with you two all the time."

"Well, maybe you need them." Clara shot right back.

"I don't." He said immediately. "I don't need you two at all. I could live all on my own. I don'tneed you."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes."

"One day you'll be without us for good. And I hope you don't wait until then to realize you never meant that."

"Yeah. Whatever."

"There are damages amounting to three hundred pounds. And if you think we're paying it and you're going to get out of this with only a few weeks of grounding, you're profoundly mistaken." The Doctor said. His voice was shaking with restrained anger. "You will come straight to the clinic after school every day and work until that amount is paid off."

"But—!"

"Do you really think you're in a position to argue with him about this?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought. Now please, go start on your homework. The headteacher said one more problem from you and you're expelled, so I want you to start making the right choices."

Ellie and Miles scrambled to their feet when they heard footsteps nearing the front hall. Ellabell grabbed her school bag and then climbed the stairs two at a time until she was on next level. She and Miles took the next set of stairs slower, now that they weren't at risk of being caught eavesdropping. Ellie parted ways with Miles once they stepped into the hall that separated their rooms.

"Good luck with the pyro." Ellie told Miles. He went into the room he shared with his brother reluctantly.

When Ellie slipped into her own bedroom, she wasn't surprised to find Lottie and Enzo looking fairly cuddly. He was supposed to be helping her prepare for her French exam, but Lottie was about as poor at it as Pauline, even after all the extra years of studying it. She claimed there was no point to her sitting for exams at all—since she was signed on to play football professionally next season—but their parents didn't quite agree with that.

"Okay, no, no. I'm lost. Are we still talking about cats? Because I've been talking about cats. And I'm getting the sinking feeling that you're not talking about cats, because you just said "First I bury the bones", and now I'm kind of concerned about both of us. And the cat we may or may not be talking about. Can you just…slow down? Talk to me like I'm really, really, really, really, really stu—"

The motion was clear from the corner of Ellie's eye. Enzo's lips pressing once to the top of Lottie's head, affectionately and calmly. She was sitting beside him, but she might as well have been in his lap with the way she leaned into him.

"We start over." He reassured her. "With a different topic."

Lottie smiled. It always amazed Ellie how calm her sister could remain. Even when she panicked she regained a sense of stability. "All right. Let's do holiday words again. Like our perfect holiday or something."

Ellie made herself as small as possible as she hurried to her side of the room. She sat on her bed and busied herself with pulling her homework out, trying desperately not to eavesdrop on _their _conversation, but it was difficult. Enzo spent at least five minutes talking slowly and calmly about his perfect holiday, and how it'd be with Lottie, and then he started talking about all the things he loved about her—but it was clear to Ellie that Lottie wasn't grasping any of it. Ellie missed a lot of it as well, but she understood the gist. And it made her heart hurt that Lottie had broken things off with him (for reasons Ellabell still didn't know), because she could hear the love he had for Lottie in his words even if she wasn't quite sure of the words themselves.

"Ellie," she complained. "Enzo's switching topics. I'm too shit at this for his tricks. What's the new topic?"

Ellie looked up at Enzo. He grinned almost sheepishly and she mirrored it. She really, really liked him and she really liked her sister with him. She had hoped he'd be around for a long time. But she guessed sometimes things just didn't work out.

"Transportation." She responded. "He's talking about cruise lines."

Lottie looked utterly frustrated. "What?! I didn't hear _any _boat or water words! Just a lot of colors and I think some fruits and—oh, are we talking about the _food _on a cruise ship?"

"Delicious things." Enzo confirmed.

Ellie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.

"You think this is hilarious, don't you?" Lottie asked him, false affront in her tone. "You think I'm a riot."

Enzo frowned. "A riot? Why? Are you…are you angry?"

"No, no. It's a saying. It means 'really funny'." Lottie explained. "Like…'oh, did you meet the new foreign exchange student?' 'Yeah, he's a riot! And really handsome, too!'."

Enzo stared.

"It's okay. I think English is stupid, too." Ellie said, her eyes trained on her homework.

"Well, I still think this is all pointless. These entire two years have been pointless. These exams are pointless." She grumbled.

"If you pick differently and want to come to university, maybe with me, you need good scores." Enzo pointed out tentatively.

Ellie felt tension flood the room. She pulled her legs up and propped her English book on her knees so she could bury her nose in it almost literally.

"But I'm not going to university," Lottie reminded him gently. "I'm going to play."

"Yes, but if you in the future don't _want _to play—"

"I want to play more than anything. Always have. But that doesn't mean I don't want to see you anymore. It just means we'll be doing different things."

"I don't understand." He said quietly, dismissing her words. But something in his tone made Ellie certain he'd understood every word of it. He just hadn't wanted to.

And even in the face of all that—upcoming tests, relationship stress, future plans—her sister looked composed when Ellie glanced up at her. She wasn't gasping for air or hiding away in an empty room. She set her hand on Enzo's knee.

"I know." She said softly.

She wondered what it felt like to be her sister. She wondered what it felt like to be so brave. That was something she'd been wondering since she was a little girl, and she was sure she'd never stop.

* * *

Her mum had come in to check on her halfway through her physics work, but she hadn't wanted to stop to tell her what a mess her afternoon had been, so she promised to go find her after she finished. Truthfully, she just wasn't sure what to say. If all the drama with her brother hadn't just played out, she would've immediately told both her parents what a difficult time she was having. But she felt like they had enough things to deal with that day without her burdens.

She went down to her mum's office half an hour before dinner, expecting to find her seated at her desk, but the room was empty. Ellie went into the sitting room after that, but Poppy and Miles were the only two present. When she finally made it into the kitchen, she found her dad in front of a pot, stirring the contents with one hand and holding a book up with another. He was wearing her mother's apron and it didn't seem to be just for laughs. After a few seconds, Ellie recognized the book as her mum's 101 Places to See.

"What are you doing?"

Her dad looked up.

"Making dinner! Fish fingers and custard, so it's our lucky day. And I'm trying to decide where I'm taking your mum for her birthday. Right now I'm thinking Bora Bora or Crete."

Ellie beamed. Food could usually always improve her mood.

"That's the best news all day!" She rejoiced. "And go for Bora Bora."

"Hmm, you think?" He asked. He looked towards the book again. "I do think the relaxation would be good. It's been a tough year."

"Definitely. They've got that volcano, right? Very cool. Speaking of Mum, where is she?" She inquired.

"In the bedroom. Headache." He replied. He let go of the spoon and lifted his arm. He looked at the inside of his wrist nervously. Whatever he saw on the watch face worried him. "Actually, it's been thirty minutes since I heard from her, would you…"

"That's where I was headed," she affirmed. "Thanks."

"Thank you, El!" He said, but then he stopped. He set the book down and turned, looking at her seriously. "No. Really. Thank you, El. Do I tell you enough that I'm proud of you? Because I am. I'm so proud of you. I realized today that I'm louder when I scold than when I congratulate—with all the yelling—and I never wanted to be that kind of parent. So without screaming at you, this is me telling you loudly that I'm proud of you and the choices you make. And most of all, this is me reminding you that I love you and I'm here for you."

Ellie unclasped her locked hands and let them fall to her sides. She rose up into her toes nervously for a moment, her father's pride suddenly incredibly weighty, because nothing was scarier than knowing how far you could fall in someone's eyes. But when he beamed at her, she knew his love was a safe place to land, even if she did crash and burn. She lowered onto her feet and then crossed over to him. She hugged him as tight as she used to when she was a little girl. They used to sneak fish fingers and custard together on Saturday nights and talk for hours about their days. Ellie told him every strange thought in her head, every fear that was crowding her chest. And they always ended those meetings with hugs like this.

"I already knew it." She admitted.

* * *

She was already feeling better when she walked to her mum's room. She'd expected to find her in her bed with the lights off, but when she entered, the bed was still made up. And her mum was standing in front of the window with her back to the door, her body shaking slightly as she tapped her fingers against the window ledge. It was strange that it took Ellie as long as it did to realize it was anxious tapping. She guessed living with an emotion for so long made it hard to recognize the way it manifested in other people.

"Mum?" She called softly.

Her mum's hand stilled. She curled her fingers up and hesitated for a few moments. Long enough that Ellie knew she was composing herself. When she turned around, she looked almost normal. She smiled shakily at Ellie.

"Hi, love. How are things?" She asked. "How are you? Come sit."

Ellabell stared at her mother. She couldn't help it. She stared at the way her knuckle was tracing nervously along her bottom lip. She stared at the way her shoulders were shaking (but only just). She stared at the way her eyes flittered nervously around the room. And in her, she saw herself, and she'd never seen anything like that before. She'd never seen anyone in her family as…_terrified_. Not over something small, anyway. She'd seen her mum scared out of her wits once, when her dad was stabbed, but she'd had a good reason to be scared and anxious. But judging by her dad's calm demeanor downstairs…this wasn't anxiety from a life tragedy. It was something else.

"I'm…" Ellie trailed off. She blinked. "Mum, you're scared."

Her mum stopped chewing on her thumbnail. She dropped her hands and took a few steps forward, almost like she just couldn't stand still.

"No. Well, yes. But only a little, tiny bit. And it's nothing you need to worry about." She reassured her daughter. She struggled visibly to get herself under control, but her words still shook when she spoke next. "I'm fine. Let's sit and talk. I've been worried about you all day. I couldn't find you after you ran off. I searched, but then I had to go talk to the headteacher and the counselor. Then I went to your classroom to check on you, but I saw you weren't there. And then I spent another hour searching, worried you were hurt or upset, but by that point you were in P.E. We really should text each other more; it was like a flashback to the 90s. I…are you all right?"

Ellie quickly worked the stunned expression from her face. She took a few steps to her right and sat down on the edge of the bed. She felt terrible for it, but her mother's anxiety had made her almost weak with relief. She reached up and touched her temples.

"Yeah," she said softly. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just…you're really scared. You're…panicking."

Her mum looked horrified.

"I am. I'm so sorry. I never want you lot to see me scared or sad for this reason: it frightens you. I'm sorry. You're my daughter, you shouldn't have to sit here and see me like this." Her mum said quickly. She sat down beside Ellie and buried her face in her hands. "This growing up thing you kids keep doing? It's really stressing me out. But everything's okay. It's a silly reason to panic. I'm silly."

Ellie turned towards her.

"But that's the thing. I'm silly, too." She said.

Her mum smiled, bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken. She reached up and tucked a stray piece of hair behind Ellie's ear affectionately.

"A bit, yes." She agreed. "But only in the best ways."

Ellie felt the relieved beam shoot across her face. She was eager for her mum to understand, but she was too overwhelmed to word it coherently.

"You're my mum. You're the sanest person I know. You're the most in-control person I know. And you're silly, too." She realized. "You get scared over normal life things. You panic and pace. But you're not mad. You're really, really brave."

Her mum parted her lips wordlessly. She looked at her in confusion.

"Of course, El. Everybody in the world gets scared and panicked." She said. She frowned. "And now I'm guessing this is the consequence of _not _showing you lot my extreme negative emotions. Did you...did you think it was _strange _to panic over normal life things? Because it's not. Being nervous about something is just a sign that you care, that it's something that matters."

Ellie's thoughts were so scrambled and chaotic that she wasn't really sure _what _she thought. She just knew seeing her mum scared went against every rule in her neat, little world. But instead of feeling her mind collapsing because if it, she felt like things were clearer.

"I've been really anxious. More than I ever have before. And I know it's not normal...I know you probably don't feel like this as often as I do...but it makes me feel less mad to see you scared, too. Because you're so strong and brave. I guess I never thought about someone like you freaking out like someone like me does."

Her mum looked crestfallen.

"I freak out all the time." She admitted. "Oh, all the time, El. Always have. You should have seen me when I was in school. You should have seen me when your father and I decided to have _kids_."

Ellie laughed, because that was the strangest thing to imagine. She flopped back on her back and stared up at their ceiling.

"Really?" She asked, to make sure she'd heard right. "_You_?"

"Absolutely." She affirmed. Her mum reclined back so she was lying beside Ellie. Ellabell immediately tipped her head to the left and rested it on her mum's shoulder. She shut her eyes.

"When you say it's been worse than ever, what do you mean, exactly? Are you having panic attacks?" Her mum asked gently.

It was suddenly the easiest thing ever to admit.

"I think so. It started a few months ago, but I've always been scared of stuff, you know? But this is different, Mum. It's worse and it's scary and I can't stop it. I tried but I couldn't."

When her voice broke near the end of her admission, her mother was quick to comfort her. She kissed her forehead and reached up with her right hand to stroke her hair.

"It's okay. Sometimes you can't. If you had the flu, you wouldn't beat yourself up about coughing, would you?"

Ellabell considered her words. She shook her head after a moment's silence.

"Are they from all the stress you're under?" Her mum asked. "Because, El, you can drop some dance lessons. I can talk to your teachers and find a way to make the work load less of a burden. You don't have to go anywhere different for sixth form, you can stay put like Lottie did. Just tell me what will make it better and we'll do that. And I won't make you, but if you want to talk to someone about this, we can find someone. Someone nice and the best in their field."

"No," Ellie said immediately, but it wasn't because she was scared to talk to a therapist or even that she didn't want to. It was just that she knew what she _did _want. And that was to talk to her mum. "I've already got someone to talk to about it."

"And I'm always here to listen. But I'm not trained on this. I'll…I'm going to get some books. And we'll read about ways to cope with anxiety and methods to stop panic attacks. But if that doesn't work, I think we ought to see someone. Okay? Are you all right with that?"

"Yeah." She realized. "I really am."

Her mum pulled her in for a hug. "Good. You know, you were the only one of my babies to practically come out of the womb with phobias. The others are scared of things because of some way I messed up—Bristol hates snakes because of that _terrible _trip to the circus when he was four, Lottie—oh, don't tell her I'm telling you this—is petrified of bats because of this show your dad let her watch when she was little. But you…you've just always been scared of things. First it was the wind, and then it was the sound of dogs barking. I wanted to blame myself for it, so I wanted to find a cause. I thought it was the extreme anxiety I was in my entire pregnancy with you for the longest time, but your dad and Uncle Ten insisted that couldn't have changed your personality. But whenever I start thinking like that, I remember the time we went to Blackpool when you were eight and there was that awful storm. I remember spending the entire day so nervous because I knew it was coming, and I knew you'd be scared, but there was no way to stop the weather. Then I remember—and I will never forget this—Poppy getting frightened, too. And you kind of…squared your little shoulders. They'd been shaking before. Then you walked over to Pop, picked her up, and said: _you don't have to be scared 'cause I'll be scared for you_. I knew then that it was _okay_. It's just part of you. Just like I'm bossy, just like your brother's argumentative, or your dad's a know-it-all, it's part of you. And you're perfect just the way you are."

She had so many words that meant something now. So many words she wanted to keep, words that she _wanted _to sprout and grow vines around her heart. She wasn't making so much out of nothing anymore.

"Mum?"

"Yeah?"

She felt her heart start to race, but she breathed against it and focused on the reassuring sound of her mum's breathing. It was a comforting sound, because it was a sound she'd heard for her entire existence.

"Have you ever fallen in love with a friend?"

She could hear the smile in her mum's voice.

"I think your existence is living proof that I have, love."

Ellie smiled. She supposed the real question would have been _have you ever fallen in love with a friend who's a girl?_ She took a deep breath.

"Yeah, that's true." She agreed. She listened to her racing pulse for a few more moments. She counted her mum's exhalations. And then she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. "But have you ever fallen in love with…a girl?"

She waited, frozen between breaths, for her mum to get tense and look down at her in surprise. But she just kept on pulling her fingers through Ellie's hair, her breaths coming at that same pace. She gave the answer Ellie expected.

"No," she admitted. Her tone grew factual, like when she was correcting their dad on some old memory or another. "But I did enjoy kissing one once. And if I hadn't been so depressed, perhaps I would have fallen in love with her."

Contrary to her expectations, Ellie was the one who was startled. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at her mum in surprise.

"What?! You kissed a girl? Like…in a gay way?" She blurted. "So…you were…gay? Or—no, you loved dad, so you were—"

Her mum laughed, probably at Ellie's expression. She could feel the shocked look covering her face.

"I think it's probably safe to say that I was—and still continue to be—bisexual. If you want to pin words to experiences." She said. "I love your dad. He's truly the only person I've ever loved romantically. But I did have something with a girl and even if it wasn't anything…deep or long-lasting, I enjoyed what it was. And that's just it, El. People don't have to _be _any certain thing one hundred percent. People are just people. If you care for your friend in a way different than you care for your other friends, well, then you do."

Ellie frowned. "But…but what if I just like her _now_. What if I'm not really…what if it's just…you know. A phase."

"I don't like to think of people or their experiences as phases. It kind of devalues them, don't you think?" Her mum asked. "In your dad's words: people are different people all throughout their lives, and that's okay. So what if this is the only girl you'll ever feel this way for? You feel this way now. Just because you might not ever feel it again doesn't mean it isn't real or it isn't part of you." She sat up and looked at Ellie knowingly. "It doesn't mean you can suppress it, hoping it'll go away, even if it makes you miserable."

Ellie looked down at her lap.

"I guess I kind of hoped that I could." She admitted.

Her mum reached forward and patted her knee. "Life would be easier if we could do that."

"Loads." Ellie agreed. She looked back up at her mum. "So what do I do?"

"Whatever makes you happy. And, unfortunately, that's not for me to decide." She told her apologetically.

Ellabell realized she'd already known that, too. Deep down.

"You won't tell anyone what we've been talking about, will you? Not even Dad?" Ellie asked nervously.

Her mum drew an X over her heart in a very Dad-like manner.

"I cross my heart." She promised.

They moved to the edge of the bed and sat perched on the edge. Ellabell looked at her mum curiously.

"Why were you anxious earlier? When I came in?" She wondered.

Her mum smiled, but it was small and sad.

"An ongoing thing triggered by your brother's…._kind _words earlier. The older you kids get, the more I worry that soon you won't need me anymore." Her mum paused. She turned and looked at Ellie for a moment. "Do you want to know something that not even your dad knows?"

Ellabell felt it was only right that she knew a secret in return. She nodded curiously and watched as her mum's eyes filled with fear. Fear that she wasn't masking for the first time Ellie had ever seen.

"I think—above all else—my biggest fear is you lot and your dad not needing me anymore. Sometimes I worry that he's a good enough parent on his own that no one really needs me around." She looked sheepish. "It feels weird to say that aloud. Not too good."

Ellie smiled gently. "Well, that's a silly fear, Mum."

Her mum laughed. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Could you really imagine this house without you? We'd all be dead in a ditch in a week, tops. And if you think Bristol's bad now, imagine what he'd be like if you were gone. He'd set Buckingham Palace on fire." Ellie gained momentum as the reality of that situation hit her. "Christ, Mum. Lottie would shut down. If you think she's a private person now, she'd probably never open her mouth again. Miles would probably lose his mind and run off. He'd end up in a really dodgy care home hundreds of miles away. And Dad…" she stopped. It was suddenly the only hypothetical situation she couldn't think up. She realized it was because the concept of them as two separate people wasn't really fully formed in her mind, even at that age. "Dad wouldn't be Dad. He'd be someone else. He'd be gone and it'd be like losing him, too. So you're more than needed. You hold us all together. You really, really do. You know it's true because I can't lie to save my life."

Her mum's smile was teary.

"Yeah, I do know that." She agreed. "I suppose it makes me a terrible person to want to be needed to that degree. I should want you all to be fine without me. And in most ways I really, really do. But in some really selfish ways…" she trailed off. "You probably think I'm awful."

"No. I think you're human. And it's weird, because just yesterday you were a loving superhero who gave birth to me and wore really expensive perfume."

Her mum laughed.

"So now I've lost my superhero status?"

Ellie grinned. "No. I just realized you're not just Mum—who's the superhero, by the way. You're Clara, too. And it's really cool, because it makes me think that one day I can be someone called Mum, too. Even if I'm just screwed up Ellie right now."

"You're not screwed up." Her mum reminded her. "You're a wonderful girl. And you will absolutely be a fantastic mum one day. You'll be just as good as the mother you were named after."

Ellie grinned down at her feet at that, because she knew that was one of the best compliments anyone could ever receive from her mother.

Clara rose to her feet.

"Right. I'm off to go cry in front of your siblings about something ordinary. I've suddenly realized where Lottie gets her emotional retention."

"You're not emotionally repressed, Mum. I think we have the soppiest family in our postcode." Ellie admitted.

"Yes, but, I do have to rethink my habit of hiding every negative feeling from you lot." She decided. "I think I'm going to start with a nice, long chat with your brother. I'm feeling a good cry."

Ellie looked at her mum seriously.

"If you cry, he will never do it ever again. I can guarantee that. One benefit to being so strong is that seeing you cry is like being slapped across the face."

"Ouch. Although I remember that feeling well. That's the way I was with my parents. The first time I saw my mum cry was…well, it was awful. And now I've decided I'm not going to cry in front of him right now."

Ellie nodded wisely. "Save it for something really important."

* * *

Perhaps things weren't one-hundred percent okay in her life, but for the first time, she realized that didn't mean _she _wasn't okay.

There was nothing wrong with her, because she was just like her mum.


	5. Redeemed

**A/n: **I'm leaving the country on the 25th- I'm hoping I can post at least one more update before then, but if I don't, know I haven't abandoned the story! Just ran out of time ;) thanks to all those who read and reviewed last chapter!

* * *

_PART 5/8 | DAVE | RATED T  
_

**Redeemed**

* * *

Dave had never told Ellie, but when she first told him she was pregnant, he felt like he'd never breathe again.

It wasn't that he didn't want a child. He had always wanted to have children with Ellie, but it had taken them longer than they wanted to conceive, and in the time they spent waiting, Dave began to worry he wasn't cut out for it anyway.

Ellie was the opposite. She often said she felt like a childless mother and had since she was a young girl. So while he was worrying and fretting, Ellie was impatient and desperate. Clara was her brightest dream, and when she became a reality, it seemed to Dave that the entire world caught flame. He told himself it was understandable that he was intimidated by the glow.

But in the end, that selfish second of self-doubt meant nothing. When she was there, all the world was bright. Things made sense. Just as his love with Ellie had started with an autumn leaf, their child was born underneath them, and for the rest of her days she was followed by shades of orange and red.

Because of that, it didn't seem to matter so much when they found out they couldn't have any more children. Dave watched his wife's face carefully after they received the news, but she wasn't preoccupied with anything but their baby.

"That's all right, isn't it, Clara?" She whispered to the baby on her lap. "That's just fine. Because we've got you."

They walked along the shoreline that night after dinner. Ellie had Clara cradled close to her chest and didn't seem to want to put her down even for a moment, and the baby had similar plans. They watched the waves until the sun drifted towards the sea and the sky was on fire with reds and oranges. Dave touched Ellie's hair, and she looked to him, and they both smiled.

He sat in the garden with Clara that night. He ran his nose along the top of her head and shut his eyes. He listened to her quiet babbles and affectionate cooing. He couldn't remember how he'd ever breathed without her.

* * *

When Ellie's job was shipped off to London, they considered not following it.

Clara had friends in Blackpool that she'd had since she was a baby, and they worried what the change might do to her. But it only took a few days of job-searching for Ellie to realize she wasn't going to find anything even half as good as what she had. So they packed up all their furniture, all their clothing, all their memories and items. Dave never told Ellie, but when the air stopped smelling salty, he wanted to demand the driver turn around.

And perhaps his instinct had been right, because things seemed to deteriorate once they were settled in London. Clara didn't like her teacher, she didn't have many friends. She was alone a lot and it kept her parents awake at night with worry. The only girl she played with was a girl named Mary, but she didn't seem to enjoy herself much even then. She missed the sea and her friends and her grandparents. Dave did, too.

Dave wished she had a sister or brother in those days. He prayed every single night that she'd find a good friend that would last.

It was often said that God always answered prayers, just not always in the way you expected Him to. Sometimes the answer was _no_ and sometimes the answer was _yes, but not right now. _Or _yes, but not like that_.

Dave's answer was one of the latter.

* * *

His answer came in the dead of night and smelled of gunshot residue.

Dave was religious enough to know that the little boy was there for a reason. But that wasn't what he'd wanted. He had wanted a nice friend for Clara, someone with a great family and a sense of humor. Someone safe and warm. He hadn't wanted a little boy pulled from the wreckage of an abusive family.

He fought it, but in the end, his wife took God's side (even if she didn't know it). He crossed his arms and watched his daughter walk unsteadily over the snow and ice to Tara Smith's house, a soufflé held tightly in her gloved hands. He peeked out the window as the door opened and a tall boy came into view. When his daughter eventually stepped forward into the home, he felt sick.

"Those boys are traumatized," he fretted. "Who knows what they'll be like?"

Ellie sat down on the steps. "I imagine they'll be like other little boys."

They threw question after question at her when she finally returned, but she seemed in her own little world. She smiled dreamily up at her mum.

"He's got the best chin, Mummy. It's like…wow! Very special."

Dave knew they were doomed.

* * *

The first time he met John Smith (or _the Doctor_ as he liked to be called), he was skittish and drawn. He seemed disbelieving when Ellie offered him hot cocoa, like he'd never before been offered anything nice before, and Dave caught him looking at him in fear every now and then, like he might explode into a monster at any moment.

The second time he came over, he stuck so close to Clara's side that they practically walked shoulder-to-shoulder. He regarded Ellie with quiet suspicion. He still couldn't talk or look at Dave without his voice or his eyes seeping with poorly-restrained fear. Clara offered him her hand, but he couldn't take it. Not because he didn't want to. Dave watched and realized with a heavy heart that nobody had probably ever held that boy's hand. Any time Clara touched her hand to his, he quickly stepped far away from her, like he thought that meant _get away from me_. The first time it hurt Clara's feelings, but the next few times, she simply followed him and closed the space between them once more.

After Clara played with him every day for one week, Dave realized he wasn't going anywhere. And he decided he didn't want him to be frightened anymore.

* * *

"What was his dad like?" He asked Tara.

She was kneeling in her flower garden. Dave had come over to help her dig holes for her new petunias, but in all honesty, he'd really just come over to chat about the Doctor.

She peeked up at him from underneath her large-brimmed hat. She stopped what she was doing immediately and turned in the dirt.

"When he was a child, he was precocious and explosive. As an adult, he went through these intense phases. Sometimes he was patient and kind with the children. And sometimes he was worthless, obsessive, and violent." She answered. "Those last two years, he was mostly the latter. He was never really…_right_. He was on medication for a few years, but he said they made him change, so he stopped taking them."

Dave refused to drop her gaze.

"Did he hit those boys?" He demanded.

"Might as well have, the way he treated them." She replied shortly. She turned back to her flowers. "And you know, the Doctor loved him anyway. That's what always broke my heart. He remembers the few good times with that man and holds onto them so tightly. He makes them mean more than they did."

That was the end of the conversation.

* * *

The next question he asked was a bit less loaded on the surface, but it turned out to be just as heavy underneath.

"Why is he called the Doctor?" He wondered.

Tara glanced towards the boy in question. He was kicking a football back and forth with Clara, both of them shrieking in laughter. She turned back to Dave.

"He's never asked or questioned it, oddly enough. But if he does ask, Ten and I are going to tell him it's because he fixed everyone's moods when he was a baby." She answered.

Dave blinked. "You're going to lie?"

"Yes. It's better than the truth. Can you imagine looking that little boy in the face and telling him his parents started calling him that jeeringly? I was there the first time they did. When he was an infant, he was oddly attuned to emotions, namely his parents. He used to…God, when I think of it now, I want to go back in time and snatch him from them…" she trailed off and swallowed hard. Dave reached over and patted her hand, even though he partially blamed her, too. "He would stroke his parents' faces whenever they were upset. And they didn't hold him a lot, mind you. This was when he was over a year old and he could make his way to them. He'd seek them out and pat their cheeks and smile this huge grin. When he was a bit older, he'd say _all better!_ His parents would set him back on the floor and laugh. The first time it happened, his mum said: _Look at Johnny. He thinks he's a doctor when he's part of the problem. _And then they started saying: _here comes the doctor!_ And then it stuck. By the time he was three, he hardly responded to Johnny at all. Much less John."

Dave stared unseeingly at the pavement. His heart felt raw and heavy. He just kept picturing that little boy—who, despite it all, loved Clara so purely—getting mocked and ridiculed by his own parents. He felt he couldn't even handle the thought of it.

"God gives the sweetest children to people who don't deserve them." He whispered. He thought about Ellie and how much she loved Clara. How much she would have loved any other child, too. "I never understood it."

"Perhaps there's nothing to understand. Perhaps there's no grand plan, no giant sparkly hand in the sky directing traffic. Just selfish idiots behind the wheel." Tara muttered bitterly.

Dave watched as Clara kicked a bit too hard and completely missed the ball. She toppled forward and landed into the pile of leaves at the base of the tree. Without even thinking twice about it, the Doctor dove face-first into the pile after her. When they both sat up, they had orange and red peppered in their hair, and they were laughing loudly enough to fill an entire home with joy.

"No," he said politely. "I can't believe that."

* * *

From that point on, he was extremely careful around the Doctor. He did everything he could to show he wasn't a threat. He was kind but kept his distance. He made sure he was never alone in a room with the Doctor, that way he wouldn't feel frightened. He and Ellie filled their cupboards with food the Doctor liked, they learned what his likes and dislikes were, and he became a part of their family. Slowly, over time, the Doctor felt more and more at ease around him. The day he finally stopped looking at him with those wide, fearful green eyes, Dave felt such intense joy that he almost wanted to jump into the air.

He overheard the conversation by accident. He'd been walking upstairs to grab a book for Ellie from their room, and as he passed Clara's bedroom, he heard the Doctor say something that broke his heart.

"Your dad is really, really nice to your mum." He commented innocently. "How come?"

Dave stopped in his tracks. He waited and listened for what his daughter might say.

"'Cause he loves her, of course." She replied easily. "Wasn't your dad nice to your mum?"

"They weren't nice to each other. I think maybe they were bad people. That's what Ten says. He hates them. Sometimes he's mean like them, too."

"Oh." Clara said. She paused. "But you're not. You're really nice."

Dave could hear the shy smile in the Doctor's voice.

"Thanks. That's what I want to be. Really nice."

Later, when they walked downstairs for lunch, Dave saw Clara reach for the Doctor's hand. This time, he intertwined their fingers easily, like he'd been doing it all his life.

* * *

Dave noticed, sometime around March, that his daughter had become infinitely tidier than before. He stood tiredly in her doorway before school and watched her straighten her duvet and rearrange her pillows. Her mechanical toys were organized in baskets and bins and her clothes were put away in her drawers.

"Are you ill?" He teased. "Look how neat it is in here."

Clara flopped down on top of her bed once it was made. She looked at her dad and shrugged.

"It makes the Doctor feel kinda scared when things are messy. 'Cause his parents made the house messy after they fought really bad." She explained.

Dave lifted an eyebrow. "Is the Doctor coming over after school?"

Clara hoped off the bed cheerfully. "Dunno. But I'll keep it clean just in case!"

* * *

The little boy who could hardly accept a kind favor turned into a boy who was able to _ask _for kind favors.

He learned to trust and Dave watched as it happened, watched as his daughter put colors into his eyes and his smile. They curled up together and watched films, Clara jumped up on his back whenever she felt like it, and they invented their own games, their own words, their own world. He got so used to their intermingled laughter that whenever it wasn't present, he felt uneasy.

"Tara thinks they're too attached," Ellie informed him.

Dave reached over and settled his hand on Ellie's knee. He felt the shape of her kneecap underneath the soft material of her trousers. He let out a long sigh.

"Aren't we all?" He finally said.

She grinned at him. And they believed it was a very good thing.

* * *

Because she'd been the one to save him, the Doctor built a world of trust inside of Clara.

Dave knew the feeling well.

Still, he didn't quite understand the depth of it until one night close to their eighth birthdays. He fell into the trap most parents do. He believed children couldn't feel things to the level that adults could.

It was a school night and everything seemed normal. Ellie read to Clara until she fell asleep, Dave and Ellie watched their favorite television show, and then they went to bed too. The first time Dave woke in the middle of the night, exhausted and confused, he was honestly convinced the squeaking he'd heard was from his dreams. When he woke the second time to footsteps, he told himself he was imagining it and drifted back off to sleep. It wasn't until the doorbell rang that he yanked himself awake.

"Who's at the door at this hour?" Ellie asked sleepily. Dave rubbed his face and pushed the blankets off his legs.

"I'll go check. You go back to sleep." He told his wife. She reached forward and took his hand into hers. He felt his heart level as she pressed her lips to the back of it.

He was still groggy and a bit confused, so when he opened the door to find himself staring at his own daughter—held tightly by the arm by Tara—he was for a moment convinced it was a dream. But then he felt the cool sting of the air and the ache in his spine, and he straightened.

"I found something in my house that belongs to you." Tara said flatly.

"Clara!" He said, horrified. He felt his heart skip two belated beats in his worry. He looked up at Tara, eyes wide. "What's going on?"

Tara wordlessly guided the guilty girl through her own doorway, her lips pressed into a line. Dave turned and looked down at his daughter.

"Go up to your room." He told her sternly. She bowed her head and nodded. He watched her make quiet, sad progress up the stairs, and then he invited Tara into the hall.

"I heard a door shut, so I got up, thinking the Doctor was reading in the middle of the night again." Tara started. She crossed her arms tightly. "Instead, I walk in to find your daughter in the house, in his room, in his _bed_. At two AM. On a school night."

Dave rubbed the back of his neck. He knew he should have been angry—like Tara was—but instead he was overcome with breathless relief that his daughter had snuck out of the house in the middle of the night and ended up somewhere safe. He couldn't think about how bad it was that she'd ended up at the Doctor's house, because he was so worried about the fact that she could have ended up _anywhere_. He'd slept right through it. She could have walked all the way to Piccadilly Circus before morning, and the thought was making him sick with anxiety.

"Christ, Tara, I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into her." He admitted. She'd been with the Doctor at school and then he'd been at their house for homework and dinner, so it wasn't like she hadn't gotten to see him recently.

"I do." Tara said curtly. "Obsession. Co-dependence."

Dave blinked. He was too tired and bemused by those words to even feel angry.

"Tara, they're seven years old." He reminded her. "They're children. They're best friends. Did you ask them why she was over there?"

"No. It's unnecessary information. All I needed to know was that my adopted son let her in, and she snuck out of her house. And yes, Dave, they're children. But surely I'm not the only one who's thought about what it's going to be like when they're teenagers? They'll be parents before they even sit for their A-levels at this rate. Not that it would surprise me."

Dave thought he was still tired, but then he realized his anger had just been slowly boiling. He straightened and peered at Tara incredulously in the dim hall.

"I'm sorry?" He challenged quietly.

Tara didn't back down.

"It all starts right now, Dave. Childhood matters. If you tell her it's okay to be so close to him, she's going to continue getting close to him, until there's no way left to get any closer. Either you put a stop to it, or I will. I won't let it get to that point. I won't let the Doctor become his father. He started like this too. And he ended up a father at seventeen, and now, he's dead. And he's left a whole lot of misery in his wake."

Dave clenched his jaw against all the nasty words he wanted to say. He could feel his face burning with anger.

"And if you tell the Doctor that it's _not _okay to be close to Clara, he's going to think being close to _anyone _is bad, and you're going to revert him right back to the sad, skittish boy who moved here. Is that what you _want_?" He asked in disbelief. "Part of being a parent is having faith in your children. It's believing that they have the right morals and character to be responsible. And I won't have you coming into my home in the middle of the night for the sake of calling my daughter a future slag. She's _seven_. She's a sweet girl. She has done so much for the Doctor, and it's all been for him. She doesn't think of anyone but other people. Shame on you for making her into a villain." He thought he was done, but then he remembered something else she'd said. "And the Doctor is not simply a byproduct of misery. He's wonderful, clever, and _kind_. Don't stamp it out of him. Don't you _dare_."

He thought she was wilting underneath his infuriated glare, but she grew stronger instead.

"I didn't come here to insult that girl." She said curtly. "I came here to inform you that something will be done about this. So it'd be best to prepare your daughter."

She wasn't getting it. He shook his head as he watched her, completely disbelieving to her idiocy.

"Tara. I'd worry that your hearing isn't what it used to be, but then, you heard my daughter enter your house just fine. Let me make myself painfully clear: you cannot separate those two. I will not let you. It isn't a matter of just my daughter's happiness. It's a matter of your son's, too. I won't let you destroy them because you're worried about what might happen once they're older. That's the future. We'll deal with it when it comes. They're good for each other. I pity you if you can't see that."

Tara looked cross for a moment, like she would have loved to scream at him, but it passed over her face quickly. She threaded her fingers together and rested her hands on her stomach. She breathed deeply and smiled forcefully.

"No matter. I figured I'd be the only clear-minded adult in this. I will take it upon myself to make sure those two don't ruin their lives." She said curtly. "Goodnight, Dave."

He was lightheaded with rage as he thundered up the stairs. He was glad to hear the door slam after her, but he wanted to follow and scream until his throat ached. It wasn't just protectiveness for his daughter anymore. It was for the Doctor, too. He had suddenly acquired another child to worry about, to fret over, and he wondered if perhaps his heart couldn't take it. Maybe that's why God had denied them anymore babies.

When Dave pushed Clara's door open, his daughter was sitting on the floor in front of her bed, her small arms wrapped around her knees. Dave took one look at the tears sparkling on her cheeks and immediately felt like the devil. She looked at him when he crouched in front of her. Her tiny chin trembled.

"The Doctor had a nightmare." She told him thickly. Her eyes shone behind a churning film of tears. "He doesn't have anyone there to make him feel better. No one at all. He was scared and he didn't wanna be alone and Tara didn't care. I tried to tell her that I was making it better, but she hates me. Why doesn't she like me?"

When his daughter began audibly crying, Dave felt genuinely homicidal for the first time he could remember. He hated Tara in that moment more than he'd ever hated anyone.

He took Clara into his arms and held her close. She wept into his shirt, and he knew her pain wasn't just from her feelings being hurt, or even from confusion over Tara's hostility. He knew it was also from the suffering she felt the Doctor was enduring in her absence. He figured she must have felt so helpless.

But he'd felt helpless, too.

"Clara, you aren't allowed to play on the computer for three days." He told her gently. She immediately leaned back and looked at him with a wounded expression. It was only his concern that allowed him to keep speaking. "It is not because you went to see the Doctor. I know he was scared. I'm proud of you for being so nice. You're grounded because you walked out of this house in the middle of the night and you could have gotten hurt. Do you understand? You are not _ever _allowed to sneak out of this house in the middle of the night. It's dangerous."

"But I just wanted—"

"I know. I know, Clara. But that doesn't change the fact that you could've been hurt." He said gently. He leaned back and peered down at her sniffling expression. "Do you have any idea how much it would kill me if something happened to you?"

Clara shrugged and looked down. Dave reached forward and gently lifted her chin, so he could look at her eyes. They were so much like his.

"You're my entire world, Clara." He told her. He heard his own voice weave. "You mean more to me than the moon in the sky, and the moon's important, you know."

Her small nose twitched as she smiled.

"It controls the sea." She informed him wisely.

He smiled. "Yes. It controls the tide. And you control my heart. So you mustn't ever put yourself in danger again. Okay?"

When she nodded, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. He smiled at her when he pulled back.

"Why don't you get into bed and talk to the Doctor on the walkie-talkie. You can tell each other stories until he feels better."

Clara's eyes lit up with hope.

"Really?" She asked.

He knew she'd do it anyway. That's how she'd known he had a nightmare, he was sure. He nodded and smoothed his hand over her hair.

"Really really." He promised.

She hugged him suddenly and tightly.

"You're the best daddy ever." She told him.

He had always believed love lived inside acceptance.

* * *

He never forgot the words he told Tara that night in his shadowed hall.

Privately, he despised her. He worked very hard to keep that a secret, because he didn't want to influence the way Clara felt about her, but there was a part of him that never forgave her for the things she'd said.

Despite that, Clara came to her own conclusions about Tara, and they ended up being similar to Dave's. It wasn't her fault; Tara really did treat her worse and worse as the years passed, but Dave began to partially understand it. When the Doctor stopped looking at Clara like a friend, and started looking at her like a lover, it made things frightening. It threw Dave as much as it threw Tara, but he put a lot of restrain in the way he handled it. He followed his wife's lead and chose to support from afar.

And then Tara did something Dave would never understand. Something he would never forgive her for. He would hold onto it until the day he died.

* * *

His daughter was fifteen and she was gasping in their front hall.

Ellie dropped the paper onto the table and rose after shooting a concerned look at Dave. They squeezed through the walkway—side-by-side and shaking—and the look on Clara's face shattered Dave's heart. It squeezed the air from his lungs. She was entirely lost.

"What's wrong? What is it, love?" Ellie asked. She hurried forward and pulled Clara into her embrace. Clara pressed her face into her mum's shoulder.

"I c-can't breathe," she sobbed, and Ellie shot an alarmed look at Dave. She supported more of her daughter's weight and pulled her back so she could look at her closely.

"What do you mean?! What's wrong?! Do we need to go to hospital?" She asked.

Clara's eyes were haunted. Tears swelled and crashed over her bottom eyelid, tumbling down her cheek. She couldn't inhale and she couldn't stop shaking.

"He went away," she gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, sending more tears rolling down her face. She reached up and touched her throat as her breaths tore from her, shallow and rapid. "Why did he do that? Why would he leave me?"

The shock of those words grounded Dave. He hurried forward and touched his daughter's hair.

"Clara, who went away? The Doctor?" He asked urgently. His mind was immediately filled with terrible, awful images: his daughter walking in on the Doctor's lifeless body, her hands on his shoulders as she shook him. But even as he fretted he knew it couldn't be that; his daughter wouldn't have reacted this way. He was sure—had she seen something so terrible—that she would've shut down completely. The fact that she was panicking was a blessing.

"H-he went—" Clara's words were choked to death by her sobs. She gasped so frantically it almost became wheezes. The fact that she couldn't explain only made her panic more. Ellie looked up and met Dave's eyes, communicating wordlessly her intent. He nodded and hurried forward. He leaned over and lifted Clara into his arms like she was still a baby, indifferent to the fact that he was already taking pain medication for his back. He carried her slowly up the stairs and to his and Ellie's room, his wife at his heels. He set her down in the middle of their bed and turned.

"I'm going to get a wet flannel." He told Ellie quietly. She nodded in response and sat down on the edge of the bed. Before he left the room, he saw her wrap her arms around Clara and bring her to her chest. She rocked her as she sobbed.

"It's all right," Ellie whispered. She smoothed her daughter's hair and closed her own eyes. Dave could already see a wet spot forming on Ellie's shirt from Clara's tears. "Everything's just fine. Your mum's got you."

* * *

In the terrible thirty minutes their daughter spent felling apart, they only got three facts from her.

One: The Doctor was doing something in Wales, only they weren't sure what. But it was easy to tell it wasn't just a weekend trip.

Two: Tara had said something awful to her.

Three: He hadn't told her goodbye.

She finally fell asleep, exhausted emotionally and physically from her meltdown. Ellie and Dave closed their door quickly and tiptoed down to the sitting room, like she was still a little girl lying down for naptime.

"I'm going to kill Tara." Dave growled.

Ellie pushed her feet into her shoes. Dave had never seen her so angry.

"Not if I kill her first." She responded.

Dave thought to only yesterday, when the Doctor had been over for dinner. The two teenagers had giggled and whispered back and forth the entire meal, their hands joining every few minutes and the falling apart shyly. Ellie had told Dave they'd kissed for the very first time only a week ago now. He couldn't imagine what his daughter was thinking. She must've felt like it was her fault somehow. She must have felt like he didn't love her anymore.

"Let me." Dave urged. He gently caught his wife's arm in his hand, looking down at her tenderly. She'd been feeling poorly for the past week. "You can stay here with Clara."

Ellie smiled reassuringly.

"I'm fine. Trust me, I need this. Seeing Clara so upset was…"

She stopped. It seemed whatever word she was looking for was too heavy to lift and utter. But Dave didn't need it.

"I know."

* * *

Dave sat on his side of the bed and turned on the television. Clara was still sleeping soundly in the middle, entirely out of it. He didn't want her to wake up upset and alone, so he vowed he'd stay by her side until Ellie returned. He watched two thirds of a Liverpool match, and then he heard the front door open. He'd just stood from the bed to meet Ellie at the stairs when he heard a crash and then a sharp intake of breath. He hurried down the stairs in his concern.

Ellie was already rising up from her spot on the floor. She huffed and looked down at Clara's boots—strewn wildly in the hall—like she hadn't even seen them. Clara usually put them up, but Dave supposed in her distress she hadn't been able to do more than pull them off. Ellie rubbed her forearm.

"That's going to bruise." She murmured. She shook her arm and then met her husband's eyes. Dave spotted the anger easily.

"Bad?" He asked.

"Terrible." She agreed. She walked over and then slowly lowered, so she was sitting on the bottom step. Dave joined her and reached for her injured forearm. He could see the skin turning pink already. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her skin once, twice. He exhaled slowly and then looked up. His wife looked tired.

"It's not really her fault, though." She said softly. "I don't think Tara knew love growing up, either."

Ellie was so much nicer than he was, because he really didn't care what kind of life Tara had growing up. She was an adult. It was her responsibility now to sort herself out and take care of whatever it was that made her so bitter. She couldn't take it out on his daughter.

"She sent him to a boarding school in Wales. He'll be gone for a year."

Dave reached behind him and rubbed the back of his neck. He bowed his head.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"Yeah." Ellie agreed. "Tara also conveniently forgot to add Clara to the Doctor's approved contacts. Which means she has no way of getting in touch with him."

It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. He was angry about it for days. But he soon realized there was more to be angry about.

* * *

It took Clara two months to cheer up.

Coincidentally, it took that same amount of time for Ellie to realize her bruise wasn't going away.

She made a doctor's appointment while she and Clara baked their first soufflé since the Doctor left. It came out burnt, but Dave ate it anyway. He'd been missing having the Doctor around, and moments like that, he missed him more. Eating burnt souffles was always a bit more manageable when the Doctor was there to choke it down, too. But he was utterly and completely gone—the abrupt and complete nature of his departure made him feel almost dead to the Oswalds. They all mourned accordingly.

* * *

Ellie's bruise was deemed normal—the GP said she'd just damaged the tissues extensively and it'd need time to repair. And they believed him, because what reason did they have no to?

In retrospect, they had many. Ellie's fatigue, her aches, her weight loss. But she was young, and beautiful, and Dave had no reason to think anything could be wrong with her. Until three more bruises cropped up, and those wouldn't leave, and she started vomiting during the day and shivering at night.

It turned into a dizzying game of transfers. They saw their GP again around two months later, and then they were referred to an oncologist, but it took another month to get an appointment. Dave spent those months in a faraway corner of his mind, frantically convincing himself that it wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

Had they known it would be so soon, they never would've kept Clara in the dark. They didn't tell her about her mum's sickness during the months of appointments because they didn't want to worry her. Ellie's exact words had been: _let's wait until the Doctor's back. I'll figure out how to manage it without her knowing. Once he's back, then we'll tell her. And maybe by then I won't even be sick any longer. _

They'd both given too much credit to fate and faith, but they couldn't help it. They were programmed to. It's what brought them together from the start.

* * *

He looked at Ellie and he tried to wrap his head around the fact that she was dying.

He looked at Ellie and he tried to understand that, in less than a month, she'd be in the ground.

He looked at Ellie—at his wife—and he tried to imagine life without her, but he couldn't.

They told Clara the same day they received the news, already cursing the months they hadn't been preparing her. She sat in the sitting room and listened as they spoke. But she couldn't wrap her head around it, either.

"That isn't funny." She told them coldly.

Dave wasn't sure what to say, but then Ellie started crying, and that was all Clara needed to see. He had never seen his daughter shut down so completely so fast. She went from horrified to vacant in a second it seemed. Dave watched her lift up her arms—her movements oddly jerky, like a robotic girl following some long-ago programmed command—and wrap them around her sobbing mother. Ellie pressed her face into Clara's chest and wept. And their daughter just stared forward.

Dave cried during showers. He cried himself to sleep. He took off work indefinitely, as did Ellie, so they could get their affairs in order. None of it seemed to reach Clara for a good four days. She acted on autopilot—going to school, coming home, doing homework, going to bed, waking up, showering—until one day it malfunctioned.

He woke around three AM to the sound of something crashing downstairs. He rushed down, his heart pounding with adrenaline—only to find his daughter in the kitchen, slamming the phone receiver into the wall over and over again. She had the base of the phone cradled to her chest.

"Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!" She punctuated each order with the slamming of the receiver. "Pick up, you liar! Pick up!" Her voice started to shake and weave. "Pick up, you prick! Pick up, I hate you! Don't leave me! I hate you!" She bent at the waist, like her heart was suddenly too heavy to support. Her sobs were so fierce they were soundless, and Dave had to read her lips to understand her next silent plea.

"Please. My mum is dying." Her fingers went slack. Dave watched the receiver tumble to the kitchen floor. The cord tugged the base down with it. It lay face up, its beeping filling the quiet room easily. Clara pressed her face into her thighs and set her hands atop her head, rocking back and forth in time with her sobs. "My mum is going to die. Come back."

Dave crossed over to her in what felt like only two heartbeats' time. He sat on the chair beside hers and reached over, gently pulling her up and to his chest. Her body shook as she wept, and Dave wept with her. He had never felt pain like he did in that moment. Never in his entire life. It was in that moment that he wondered—horribly and selfishly—if watching someone die was worse than the dying itself.

"I never want to see his stupid, sodding, _fucking face_ ever again!" She screamed. Her voice was so high-pitched it seemed to tear.

Dave would've defended the Doctor, but in that moment, he knew exactly how Clara felt.

He felt the same way about God.

* * *

He spent three hours on the phone with the boarding school. He stood outside Tara's door and cried. But no one would let him speak to the Doctor.

"I will never forget this," he told Tara, slumped outside her front door. It was nearing noon. He'd been on her stoop for an hour, arguing with her through a shut door. The sun was out, but he couldn't feel it. "When those two end up married—and they will, you haven't stopped a _thing_—I will always remember how you tortured Clara. I will always remember how disgustingly selfish you were. I will never forget the way you turned away my daughter—my _little girl_, Tara—and left her to deal with this alone. She's losing her—her—_goddamn _mother!" He'd never used that curse word before. It made him shiver with something that felt like justice. "Never forget that no matter how civil I may act towards you in front of our children, there will always be a part of me that hopes for your misery."

He spat on her front door. He hadn't done such a disrespectful thing since his wild, teenage years. And he didn't regret it.

* * *

She died in hospital.

Dave was lying by her side, stroking her hair back from her face. Clara was holding her hand.

He saw _Ellie _shrink out of her eyes. Her wrist went limp a moment later.

And it was all a blur to him after that. He remembered signing some papers. He remembered them taking her body away. He remembered his daughter screaming in the car on the way home: _I didn't tell her about my mark! I didn't tell her about my mark! She didn't know!_ In her hysteria, she vomited all over the car mat.

In the days that followed, there was a never-ending carousel of visitors in their home. They accumulated so many dishes and cakes that they started taking bites out of different ones whenever they were hungry. Dave didn't have the sense to heat anything up for him and Clara. He didn't think to load the dishwasher. After people stopped arriving with edible condolences, he tried to go to the supermarket, but he was practically blinded by a horrid stench when he opened his car door.

He'd forgotten to clean up the sick.

* * *

The first thing he felt other than paralyzing agony was fury.

Tara had the nerve to show up at their home two weeks later. She'd been at the funeral, but she'd at least had the wits not to approach them.

"Dave—" she began.

He slammed the door right in her face.

"You are not welcome here until Clara says so."

* * *

He thought perhaps he'd gotten through to Tara, because three days later, a letter arrived from Wales. Dave was certain Tara had phoned and let the Doctor know about Ellie, and he was sure the letter would contain something that would help his daughter. She hadn't eaten a thing in two days. She was sleeping for fourteen hours at a time. So he was breathless with relief when he handed her the letter.

Perhaps he'd been right at the very start. He wasn't cut out to be a father. He was so torn up that he didn't have enough left in himself to help put his daughter back together.

He left her alone with the letter. She'd only been upstairs for ten minutes at the most when he heard her walking downstairs, her steps measured. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his forehead in his hand. He lifted it as she marched over to one of the drawers, the opened letter balled up in her fist.

"Clara?" He asked. He watched her pull something from the drawer. "What are you doing?"

She sparked the lighter. Dave watched as she brought the flame to the paper. The flickering orange light cast eerie, dark shadows over her face.

"Burning bridges."

* * *

She went off the deep end after that.

He could've lied and said he didn't know what she was doing, who she was hanging around with, but no one would've believed it. He knew. He just didn't have the strength to do a thing about it.

He slept for nine hours, did work from home for three, then slept some more. He was lucky to get one meal in a day. His daughter was out at all hours of the night, and when she came home, she usually smelt of smoke or alcohol. He tried to set her right the first time, but it'd ended with her screaming in his face and storming from the house in the middle of the night. He'd roamed London for four hours, so panicked he could hardly breathe. She was there when he returned home. He was too afraid to ever say anything stern to her again, for fear she'd leave him. They were always leaving him.

He went to Mass on Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday morning, Sunday night.

He lit candles for Ellie. He lit candles for Clara. He lit candles for himself.

He spent two hours praying the rosary in the oratory, convinced if he only tried hard enough, he could hear God. And he desperately needed to hear Him. He needed to know why. He needed to know what he'd done to deserve this, what his daughter had done to deserve this.

When he told his daughter she needed to hear God too, that everything would be better for both of them if only she did, she slammed her bedroom door in his face.

"I hate you." She drew out between gritted teeth. Dave flinched. "There is no God. And if there were, I'd tell Him to go to hell."

* * *

She meant it.

He found a condom wrapper in pocket of the jeans she'd worn the night before. She'd come home reeking of alcohol and Dave had offered to throw her clothes in the wash for her, knowing she'd be hungover the next morning. He hadn't expected to find what he had. He hadn't expected to feel so sick.

He didn't even have to confront her about it, because when he stormed up to her room, she was already crying into her pillow.

"Clara," he whispered, concerned. He felt more grounded than he had since Ellie's death. He sat on the edge of her bed, briefly sane with worry. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She was incoherent. He rubbed her back and tried not to cry along with her. He must've sat there with her for at least half an hour, trying his best to comfort her, and it seemed his efforts paid off. She sat up and looked at him. Her eye makeup had left long, horrid stains down her cheeks.

"It didn't mean _anything_," she bit out. Her shoulders were shaking. She looked like she might be sick any moment. "All these things that are supposed to mean something and they don't. I didn't feel anything. I'm numb. I want my mum. I want my mum back! Who took her away? Why did they take her?"

He told her a lie that might've been a truth.

"I don't know."

* * *

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was two days ago. I have cursed the name of God. I have denounced His existence to my daughter. I have begged God to answer me, but I hear nothing."

"Is that last sin yours, or your believed sin on God's part?"

"God doesn't sin."

"No, He doesn't. And He has his reasons for remaining silent. Tell me more about your denunciation."

"She asked me who took her mother from us. I told her I didn't know. But…I do know. So it was a lie, as well. God took her from us."

"Do you believe God stole her away? Or do you believe He welcomed her home?"

"_I_ was her home."

"People cannot be homes. The only pure love on this planet is the love God has for us. All love we extend towards others is made in His image."

"Why would He create such perfect love and then take it away?"

"We can never fully understand God's actions. We can only hope to be receptive to His voice when he decides to speak."

"And when will that be?"

"When will God decide to speak?"

"Yes."

"When you decide to listen."

"But I am listening. I'm listening out for Him so much that I can't hear anyone else. I'm listening and all I hear is silence."

"Perhaps you should try looking instead of listening."

* * *

A week later, the Doctor knocked on his door.

Dave was so dazed that he forgot what he told him. He just knew he went inside and wept with joy.

"Thank you," he prayed, his hand pressed over his heart. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. It's not about me, it's about Clara. You saw that. You knew it. _Thank you._"

* * *

The change in his daughter was immediate and jarring.

He waited up for her that night. He knew the Doctor had waited out front for her, too. He knew they'd had a long chat. He knew it because his daughter was _smiling _when she walked inside. He hadn't seen her smile in over six months.

He rose when she walked into the sitting room. She smiled and smiled—and then she laughed. Her eyes were wet with tears. She let out a long sigh, the kind that suggested she'd just let go of tension that'd lived in her very bones.

"The Doctor's back," she said. She leaned back against the wall, like she couldn't stand up straight in her relief. She let her eyes shut. "Thank God," she breathed.

It sounded like a blessing to Dave's ears.

* * *

This time, it was the Doctor who rebuilt Clara.

Dave watched him reteach Clara all those same lessons she'd taught him over ten years ago. Lessons like: _Here's how to ask for help, Clara. Yes—it's fine to cry. Cry on my shoulder. Are you scared? That's okay. It's okay. We're okay. Take my hand. Hold it. I'm not letting go. _

When Clara and Dave visited Ellie's grave, they took the Doctor along. After Dave had his time, he stepped to the side to give his daughter and the Doctor a chance to say some words. From afar, he watched his daughter weep openly for nothing but her mother for the first time since she'd died. She sobbed into the Doctor's neck and she held him like he was her home.

He decided his priest was the fallible one.

* * *

He never forgave Tara, even though it would've been the godly thing to do. And some of the decisions his daughter and the Doctor ended up making he didn't entirely approve of, but he never felt anything but relief at the sight of them together after that.

Tara had fought their relationship with everything inside of her, and all she'd managed to do was hurt people. Dave accepted it and he watched it play out—and he decided it was beautiful.

It didn't matter that he'd lost his love. It didn't matter that he was alone. What mattered—what had _always _mattered—was that his daughter was happy. That she had perfect, pure love.

It turned out the priest was right about one thing.

He'd wasted his time listening.

All he ever had to do was look. He only had to watch his daughter smile after the Doctor walked into a room, and he knew.

God was there.

And so was Ellie.


	6. Lucky

**A/n: **Gearing down for the last two chapters- thank you to everyone who's been reading this story, and especially to those who've taken the time to review! Hope you enjoy. (This chapter includes references to "an island in Bristol, mothers' mistakes, and fated love" and "overprotective tendencies, the perfect imperfections of family, and the possibility of forever", but it's not necessary to have read those to understand!).

* * *

_PART 6/8 | POPPY | RATED K+_

**Lucky**

* * *

One of the greater privileges of a wealthy child was economic innocence.

There were exceptions to this—wealthy children who were raised to worship money, to view those without it as subhuman—but for the majority, those children blessed to live in well-off families hardly knew money existed. They'd see their parents buy things, of course. But to them money was as much a part of their world as food; it was something that everyone had, something that they didn't have to worry about.

Poppy grew up during one of the most financially stable times of her parents' lives. But from the age of five onwards, she questioned it.

* * *

The first time she saw someone rough sleeping (that she could remember), she was five years old. She'd just got done Christmas shopping with her dad. She was wearing a brand new coat. And the homeless man was shivering on a park bench underneath plastic shopping bags.

She stopped right in her tracks and stared. Her dad felt her hand slip from his and then came to a stop himself, turning to look down at her in confusion.

"What's—" he cast his eyes towards what she was staring at. Poppy had to examine the man for a long time to find his eyes; his face was covered with scraps of filthy fabric. When she finally did, she was startled to find them the prettiest blue she'd ever seen. They were cloudy too, like the sky.

Her dad reached for her a moment too late. She shuffled over to the bench.

"Hiya," she said. She watched the man's eyes search around and around before finally landing on Poppy's stomach. She looked down at her coat buttons, curious what he was seeing. She didn't see anything particularly interesting.

"Hi," he wheezed back. "You a little girl?"

"If I wanna be. And I do." Poppy responded. She wished he'd look up at her eyes so she could see his better. She set her hands on her knees and kneeled down, so she was face to face with him. He had very bad breath, but it was okay, because she did in the mornings, too. "You have pretty eyes. Like cloudy days."

She felt her dad quickly take her hand again. He tugged her back up, so she was standing straight.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly. He sounded embarrassed. "My daughter's curiosity gets the best of her sometimes."

Poppy tugged on her dad's hand.

"Look at his eyes, Daddy! They're beautiful." She shared.

She jumped in surprise when the man started coughing violently. Her dad got scared when his coughs grew wet and bloody, and Poppy thought it was for the man, but he surprised her by quickly yanking her up in his arms and out of the man's face. She wondered why he cared so much if she got blood on her—her mum always got blood out of their clothes. Maybe he just didn't want her to be scared, because blood did scare her.

And despite the tight, scared way her dad was holding her, he took another step closer to the man.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

After a few more hacking coughs, the man reached down and grabbed one of the scraps of fabric that had been covering his neck. He wiped at his bloody mouth.

"Your daughter is sweet." He answered gruffly.

Poppy felt proud to hear those words. She looked at her dad, thinking he'd be proud too, but he just looked really sad. He was about to walk away with her when she spotted something peculiar.

"Daddy," she whispered. "How come his toes are black? The rest of his foot isn't."

Her dad's head snapped to the man's feet—poorly covered by shredded, dirty socks. Poppy looked back at her dad and saw him swallow hard, like he sometimes did when he was upset. She reached up and touched his cheek.

"What's wrong?"

Her dad looked down at her distractedly. He kissed the top of her head and then set her back on the ground, with a mindful hand resting on her shoulder. He approached the man again. Poppy watched him kneel down, like she'd been before. She wondered why it was okay for _him _to do it.

"Can you feel anything in your feet?" He asked gently.

The man cast his cloud eyes to the sky.

"Not anymore."

Poppy looked to her dad curiously. He was scanning his eyes over the man, like doctors did. And then Poppy remembered. She beamed.

"My daddy's a doctor!" She exclaimed. "He can help you; he helps loads of people!"

She rocked happily on her feet and looked expectantly towards her father, waiting for him to get the man to come to his clinic. He always saw patients at his clinic. It was usually just kids, but Poppy figured grown ups were just really large kids, so it'd be okay.

But her dad didn't look relieved. He looked sad. Poppy didn't like it.

"I bet he does, little one." The man croaked. "But I'm afraid I can't be helped."

Poppy felt her heart drop. She frowned.

"Why not?"

Her dad turned around, so he was kneeling in front of her instead. Poppy stared at his green eyes and then reached forward to hold his face.

"How come?" She asked him seriously.

He reached up and held her face, too. He didn't back down from her questioning look.

"Because he's very, very ill." He answered gently. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes turning soft and nice. "But we can make him more comfortable."

When Poppy smiled, he dropped his hands from her face and stood. Poppy looked down at the man and thought.

"I think I want him to have a coat like mine, only bigger." She decided. She directed her next question to the man. "Do you like green?"

"I guess." He answered. He sounded kind of confused.

"I love green. It's my favorite." Poppy shared. She looked up at her dad. "Can we go back to the shop?"

But he wasn't looking at her, because he'd moved to perch on the edge of the park bench.

"What's your name?" He asked the man.

"George."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm a doctor. Would you like me to help you?"

"I'm dying. I'll be dead any day now."

Poppy looked to her dad, stricken. But those words didn't seem to surprise him.

"I know. But would you like to die some place clean and warm?" Her dad asked. He didn't pause long enough for a response. "We can get you a place to stay. Somewhere with heating. I can help you somewhat with your coughing. If we get you cleaned up and indoors, I can look over you and do my best to make you more comfortable."

"And dinner." Poppy piped up. "I want him to get dinner with us." She paused. She looked at the man. "Do you like chips? We were going to get big plates of chips. But you can't tell my mummy."

She waited eagerly for his response. She expected him to smile a bit and sit up. When he started weeping, it was too much for Poppy. Just the sight of his face crumbling made her chest flood with unbearable pain, and she started crying too.

"Why are you sad?" She demanded through her tears. She hiccupped as she cried. Her dad reached forward and lifted her up and into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest, his chin resting against the top of her head.

"It's okay," he comforted her. "It's happy tears."

She shook her head. She was crying, and she did not feel happy at all. Her chest felt wide wide wide—like someone had dug a big hole in it with a spade.

"Tears are not happy." She insisted. She reached up and hid her face in her small hands. "Crying hurts."

"I know, sweetie," her dad whispered. He hugged her closer and kissed her hair, and it made her feel a little better, but it didn't change the fact that the man beside them was going to die. And dying meant going away forever.

"What's her name?" She heard the man ask thickly.

"Poppy."

"Poppy, crying can be happy."

She lowered her hands. Her palms were slick from her tears. She looked down at him and hiccupped again, hard enough it hurt.

"Really?"

He nodded, and then he grabbed onto the back of the bench. She watched him heave himself up slowly.

"Really." He promised. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I can see colors and colors only. People are colors and the colors come from who they are."

Poppy sniffled. She took a shaking breath and then rubbed her face, relieved when the hole started closing up. Sometimes even after it closed up her chest felt heavy, like _too much _dirt had filled the hole. Like there was a pile of turned up earth lying on top. She felt like that then.

"What color am I?" She asked curiously. She hoped she wasn't purple. She hated purple.

His next words lifted some of that weight.

"Green."

She beamed.

* * *

That day lifted a veil Poppy hadn't even known was covering her face. She began noticing all the rough sleepers after that. She noticed people on the streets who had dirty clothes on and smelled like they didn't have a nice place to bathe. She noticed people frantically counting pennies at the back of supermarket queues. And she didn't understand.

"Mummy?"

Her mum looked up from her computer. She lowered her mug of tea and quickly swallowed the sip she'd just taken.

"Yes?"

Poppy turned in her chair. She had her very own desk in her mum's office that looked just like her mum's, only it was her size. It was her favorite place to be in the whole world. She even liked it more than her bed. Currently, she was drawing circles on a piece of paper, one for every person she saw who didn't have a home. She'd been noticing and counting whenever they went out. The only problem was that she couldn't count high enough, so she just kept starting over and over.

"Are we rich like famous people?"

Her mum choked on the second sip she'd taken of her tea. Poppy watched her cough, remembering George with a sharp sting of pain. Her dad told her he was happy and living in the hotel room still, but Poppy wasn't sure. She thought he'd died, because her dad wouldn't let them bring lunch over to him anymore, and they'd done that for six whole days. She had drawn the prettiest grave for him at school, one that was fit for a king, but then the counselor phoned her dad.

"No, definitely not." Her mum responded. Her words sounded like laughter even though she wasn't laughing. Poppy didn't know what was funny. "Why on earth did you think that?"

Poppy grabbed her mug of water. She took a sip like her mum did, pursing her brow as she thought.

"Well, number one, we have a house with pretty carpets."

She loved their carpets. They were new and so soft to sleep on. Poppy sometimes got out of her bed at night and slept on the floor, something that made Miles really confused in the mornings.

"Yes, we do." Her mum agreed. She spun her chair around so she was facing her daughter completely. Poppy felt shy suddenly to have her mum's full attention, because she'd been working on "something big". But Poppy remembered that she was something big, too. Her mum told her she was bigger than the moon.

"Number two is we have _loads_ of food." She added.

Her mum nodded. Poppy took a deep breath.

"Three. All of our toes are the same color as our feet, which Daddy says is _very good_."

Her mum laughed, but then she stopped abruptly, like she didn't really find it funny anymore. All at once she looked sad. She turned and set her mug on the desk and then spun back around to face Poppy. She set her hands in her lap like she did when she had something Important to say.

"Is this about George?" She asked softly.

Poppy reached up and closed her hands over her ears. She glared at her mum.

"Don't say his name. It makes me hurt." She reminded her. Her mum winced.

"I'm sorry, love." Her words sounded far away due to Poppy's hand placement. She waited a moment and then lowered her hands.

"I don't know why we have all this stuff and other people sleep on the pavement."

Her mum parted her lips to reply, but at that same moment the email sound on her computer went off. She glanced back at it crossly. Poppy watched her swivel the chair around and slam the laptop shut. She returned back to her previous position.

"Well," she started, but then she seemed uncertain of what to say. "We have a good home because your dad and I are lucky and we have good jobs."

Poppy remembered something her dad had told her about homelessness. About how you needed jobs to get money and you needed money to get a house.

"So not everyone has good jobs?" She asked.

Her mum shook her head. "No, unfortunately."

Poppy looked down at her lap and thought.

"So," she started. She looked back up at her mum. "If everyone got a job, they would have a nice house like ours?"

"Well…—" her mum stopped. She smiled. "Yes."

Poppy let out a breath of relief.

"Good. So they can all get jobs right now and be happy." But after she said it, it didn't sound right to her. "But why didn't they just have a job in the first place?"

Her mum looked at her and thought. Finally, she leaned forward.

"You know how you kids always fight over who gets the last Cornetto?"

"Oh yeah."

"Jobs are kind of like that. There are loads of people who want them, but there aren't enough to go around. Like how all five of you want the Cornetto, but there's only enough for one."

Poppy frowned. "Why can't they just cut up one job and share it?"

"Why wouldn't you want me to cut up one Cornetto for you to share with your siblings?"

Poppy tried to imagine cutting a Cornetto into five pieces. No matter which way she thought, it was messy, and someone ended up with a bigger piece than someone else.

"Because someone would get the itty bitty bottom part, and it would probably be me."

Her mum nodded.

"Right. If you cut one job into a lot of different pieces, it wouldn't pay enough to support the person working. There are too many people who want jobs and not enough jobs."

Poppy decided the world was stupid. She threw her hands up in the air, like her dad did when he was frustrated.

"They can go to the shops and get _more _jobs!"

Her mum frowned. "It isn't always that easy, love. Jobs aren't really Cornettos. You can't buy boxes of them."

Poppy turned back around in her chair. She stared down at her drawing.

"Why not?" She demanded. "If we had more jobs, people would have homes."

She heard the office chair squeak as her mum stood. She crossed over and sat on the edge of Poppy's small desk. She leaned forward and kissed her daughter's forehead.

"Why don't you grow up and become the Prime Minister. Then you can set it all right." She told her.

Poppy's eyes widened. She beamed.

"Mummy!" She said, shocked and proud. "That's a _great _idea! Well done!"

Her mum stroked her hair back from her face, her smile wide.

"Oh, Pop. You are absolutely your father's child."

Poppy flinched, shocked and horrified.

"What?! _Just his_?!"

"No!" Her mum said. Her lips twitched, but Poppy glared to show her it wasn't funny. "Of course mine too. Of course. Where else would you have gotten that nose from?"

"Not from job money, that's for sure."

* * *

She never forgot that conversation with her mother. As she grew and learned, she added onto it. She came to understand all the things that'd seemed so befuddling as a little girl. She was able to look at her life and recognize just how privileged they all were, for so many reasons. Just how lucky. It made it difficult sometimes to voice her own pain, because she felt she had no reason at all to be sad about anything. As she grew, she put her focus on the less fortunate, and she tried her hardest not to resent herself. But it was difficult to go from a warm house to the streets and not wonder _am I a selfish person?_ It was difficult to listen to her siblings complain about something and not think _you have no idea how lucky you are. _

There was a delicate line between recognizing people's blessing and dismissing their feelings. It was only her big heart that enabled her to keep from crossing it too often.

* * *

"Charles!"

Poppy's cry of relief got the man's attention. He waved at her across the cavernous room, his face opening up with a bright smile. It took him a few minutes to make it back to the front office, because he stopped every few feet to chat with someone or another, but Poppy understood. She wasn't too angry, even though she'd been up for over twenty-four hours straight. Even though she'd had to take Marlin's shift because he never showed up. Even though she had an essay due at four o'clock that she still needed to finalize.

"Okay," she said, once Charles shut the door after him. "I'm a bit angry."

"I know. I'm sorry. I had no idea Marlin didn't show up until I checked my phone this morning." He admitted. He stood in front of her and reached up, gently touching the dark circles underneath her eyes with his fingertips. "You didn't get any sleep at all?"

She blinked at her boss.

"Charles. I'm not supposed to sleep on the job, remember?"

"Yeah, but you're my girlfriend. So if you get stuck working all through the night, you're allowed cat-naps." He responded firmly. "Besides, it's not like you're being paid. I don't think anyone would ask this much of a volunteer."

Poppy turned her back on him as she gathered her bag. She pulled it over her shoulder and then grabbed her empty coffee cups, tossing them into the bin. The office was tiny—only big enough for the one table and chair—so she didn't want to leave anything lying about that might take up more room.

"I ask that much of myself." She responded. She looked up at him tiredly. "I have something to tell you…and you're going to be cross. Probably."

He snorted.

"When have I _ever _been cross with you?" He demanded.

Poppy smiled briefly. "Never. But it's coming! I'm sure."

He crossed his arms and waited, his smile still in place. He seemed wholly unconcerned.

"I might've…let a few more people stay than we're…technically supposed to." She admitted.

She closed her eyes tightly. She peeked up at him through one eye, waiting to see if his smile would falter. But it hadn't.

"I kind of noticed that when I walked in. Everyone in that room wants to make you their queen now, you know. Especially since you made them scones." Charles lowered his arms slowly, his face dawning realization. "Are you building an army, Pop?"

"Don't be silly. I'd never exploit the homeless like that." She paused. "Now estate agents…hmmm. Ask me again once I've had more sleep."

He didn't seem convinced.

"Because baking scones for over one hundred people is suspicious." He pressed.

"My brother helped me." Poppy explained, like that made the entire thing no big deal at all. She'd been getting insanely drowsy around three AM, so she'd phoned her brother and asked him to come over and help her bake something to serve for breakfast. He'd come straight over to the shelter, even though he'd been asleep when she called. It'd actually been a lot of fun.

"Oooh, really, now?" Charles asked. He grinned. "You had someone in your family at the shelter. That must mean you're finally going to introduce me as your boyfriend."

He reached out for a celebratory hug. Poppy spun out of his grasp.

"Not so fast. I'm waiting until they stop reeling from Ellie's abrupt marriage."

Ellabell had met her current husband at the dance studio in Cardiff. They'd started dating immediately after Ellabell's nastiest breakup to date. In what their family frequently referred to as Ellie's only rash and rebellious action to date, they married after only four months. Their heads were still spinning from the uncharacteristic scandal. By the time they'd adjusted to the fact that Kathryn was no longer in the picture, Ellabell was Ellabell Ellis. The last thing they needed was Poppy ringing them up to say: _Hey, you know the owner of the shelter I volunteer at? The twenty-eight year old one who used to be homeless himself? Yeah—we're dating. And it's serious_. No, she'd wait until the perfect time.

"Fine, fine, you know best." He sighed. He pouted. "That ring's burning a hole in my pocket, though."

Poppy pointed at herself. "Nineteen. That ring—as beautiful as it is—will just have to burn for a few more years." She walked over to him and set her hands atop his shoulders. She leaned in and kissed him gently. "I'll come by after classes are over."

He rubbed his hands up and down her sides as he frowned. His hands finally came to rest at her hips.

"No lunch?"

Poppy frowned right back.

"I've got an essay to finish up. It's worth a third of my grade." She admitted.

He leaned forward and kissed the downturned corners of her mouth.

"Education's the priority." He agreed. "It's family, education, me, and friends."

Poppy leaned back.

"You and family are in the same category." She corrected.

She watched the scar above his upper lip rise as he beamed. The happiness in that smile made her heart swell and swell. Lately, it was so large it completely filled whatever hole the sadness of the world carved out. That's how she knew he was her soul mate.

* * *

She'd only just sat down in the library when her phone went off.

She winced, horrified that she'd somehow forgotten to turn it on silent before entering. She dove into her bag and pulled it out. She gathered her stuff back up and then stood as she answered.

"Hey, hang on a moment, I'm in the library," she whispered.

"Oh! Sorry." Her sister said.

Poppy could hear her niece singing some Disney song in the background. She smiled as she hurried from the building.

"All right," she said. She sat on the bench out front and exhaled. "What's happening?"

"Boredom. We haven't had a single customer since nine." She sighed. "I've got no readings left to do for lectures and Elsie's starting to eye the shelves. I think she's having daydreams of climbing them. Want to come keep us company?"

Poppy winced. She had so much work to do—not to mention she was _exhausted_ and didn't really want to chase a four-year-old around—but she didn't want to disappoint her sister, either. She looked down at her bag as she thought.

"I have to finish up an essay," she started. "But I can do it over there, I guess."

"Brilliant. Thanks, Pop."

"Yeah, it's nothing!" She reassured her.

* * *

She stopped for coffee on the way to her sister's bookshop. It took her a lot longer to get there than it would anyone else, since she tripped and dropped her coffee _twice _and had to keep circling back to get another. She was frustrated with her clumsiness- enough that she wanted to just sit on the pavement and huff-but she was almost to the shop, so she kept going. It was in sight when her phone rang. She stared at the phone in confusion. Bristol hardly ever phoned her.

"Hello?"

He paused. Poppy waited, confused.

"Bristol?"

"Hey," he finally said. Poppy could tell immediately that something was wrong. His voice sounded thin. "Um."

Another long pause. Poppy gripped the phone tighter, genuinely concerned now.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

She heard him sniff. His voice was quivering; she could hear the strain as he struggled to control his tone.

"Nothing. Sorry."

And just like that, he ended the call. Poppy pulled the phone back from her face and stared down at the screen in confusion.

"POPPY!"

She looked up, momentarily distracted from the odd call by the sound of her niece's voice. She met Lottie's eyes—she was standing in the doorway of the shop—and then crouched down, opening her arms for her charging niece. Elsie threw herself into her aunt's embrace and kissed her cheek, her small arms winding tightly around her neck. Poppy hefted her up and hugged her tightly.

"Hi, angel!" She cooed. She kissed her hair and carried her the short distance to the open doorway, where her mum was waiting. She grinned at her sister.

"I should stay away for two days at a time more often; she's never been so happy to see me!"

Lottie rolled her eyes. "She's always happy to see you. You and literally everyone else."

She smiled affectionately at her daughter.

Poppy set Elsie down on the threadbare carpet once they walked into the shop. She turned to tell Lottie about the odd call, but then Elsie wrapped her arm around her leg. She looked down at the girl.

"Enzo had a pajama party with us last night!" Elsie shared. "He taught me how to say three things in French!"

Poppy turned and looked at her sister, her eyebrows raised. Lottie made a point of turning and straightening a stack of books on the display table.

Poppy glanced back down at Elsie. She smiled and reached forward, giving one of her braids a gentle tug.

"Let's hear them."

Elsie kept one arm hooked around Poppy's leg. She walked in half-circles, swinging around like the leg was a pole. She repeated the phrases with a serious tone, like she was very intent on getting it right. And she probably was. She adored Enzo, maybe even more than Lottie did.

"Wow! Your French is just too good for me, Elsie," Poppy told her. "You'll have to translate."

That made Elsie beam ecstatically.

"I said: _I love you, you're the best girl in all the land, _and _thank you!" _

Poppy set her hands on her hips and looked down at Elsie, entirely impressed.

"Well aren't you clever. Enzo was nice to teach you all those." She said.

Elsie finally let go of her leg. She crossed over to her mum and leaned against her side. She was going through a particularly clingy phase; she couldn't stand to be far from her mum for more than a few minutes at a time.

"It wasn't hard to learn, 'cause he says them all the time." Elsie admitted.

Poppy glanced to Lottie. She had her face behind a book, but Poppy was sure she was smiling. Sure enough, when she lowered it, her cheeks were slightly red.

"Oh, I meant to ask you—did Bristol ring?" She asked.

Poppy straightened, having forgotten for a moment. She nodded.

"Yeah! It was strange. He didn't really…say anything. Just sounded upset."

Lottie frowned. Poppy watched her lift her hand and bite at her nails.

"He did the same with me as well." She admitted.

The two sisters held a worried glance for a long moment. Lottie was the one to break it.

"I'm going to ring Mum."

"I'll ring Dad."

Poppy leaned against a shelf while the phone rang, her eyes on Elsie as she sat on the carpet. She was in the process of making what looked like a house from books. She was stacking them in a formation around her, her brow pursed in concentration. Poppy was smiling when she heard her dad answer.

"Hi, Dad!" She greeted.

"Mum didn't pick up," Lottie said. Poppy watched her walk over and sit down beside Elsie on the carpet. The silence on the phone drew on for longer than she was comfortable with. She turned slightly and frowned. "Dad?"

"Pop, something's happened."

Poppy spun around automatically, as if hiding her face from Elsie would guard the little girl against whatever her granddad was about to say. She struggled to inhale against her pounding heart.

"What?" She asked. It was barely audible.

"Grandpa died."

For a moment, all Poppy could hear was her heartbeat echoing around her head. She couldn't move or think. The words kept replaying in her mind, and her throat was narrowing, but it didn't make sense to her. She grasped onto the shelf behind her and blinked rapidly.

"No." She argued. Her voice tore. "I just saw him on Sunday."

She thought she'd be okay. She was fighting against her tears, and she was winning.

And then she realized her dad was crying.

"I know. I'm sorry, Pop," he choked out. "Your mum found him this morning. I'm so sorry."

Poppy shut her eyes, suddenly overcome with lightheadedness.

"It's not your fault," she reassured him. Her voice shook as she asked her next question. "How's Mum? And Bristol?"

Her dad was quiet.

"Maybe you should come over."

Poppy turned and headed straight for the door.

* * *

There were a lot of things she'd expected to find when she got to her childhood home.

Her mum doing the dishes was not one of them.

The front hall had been empty, as was the sitting room. The house was eerily quiet except for the distant sounds of Bristol crying. He'd been closer to their grandfather than any of them, a closeness that started when he was young. Their grandfather had been the one to help Bristol get over the death of his girlfriend. He'd moved into their home after that, and that's where he'd lived for the past three years. Until this.

Poppy went to climb the stairs, to give her help wherever it might be needed, but then she heard the sound of glasses clinking together. She turned and changed paths.

Her mum looked up when she walked in the kitchen, pausing momentarily, a sponge in her hand and a dinner plate in her other. She forced an almost painfully strained smile.

"Hi, love." She said.

Poppy watched in confusion as she turned back to the dishes. She was caught staring, transfixed with a feeling of unsettlement, until she heard a sniffle. She glanced towards the table and felt the reality of the situation slam into her hard. Her dad had lifted a hand to shield his face, but Poppy could see how his shoulders were shaking.

"Dad?" She asked gently. She walked over to him and sat beside him, reaching to touch his shoulder hesitantly. He quickly wiped at his cheeks with his hands and gave her a teary smile.

"Hi, Pop. Is Miles still upstairs with your brother?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She had to try two more times, and even then her words were thick and shaking.

"I don't know. I just heard him crying. I guess so." She answered. She suddenly wished her sister had come along. She'd told her not to yet, because she didn't want Elsie to get upset, but she wasn't sure she could handle this on her own. "Are you okay, Dad?"

He rubbed over his wet eyes.

"Not really," he admitted. His lips trembled. He shot a look at his wife, her back still to them. He lowered his tone to a whisper. "And I'm really worried about your mum."

Poppy looked to her and then back to her dad.

"She seems…oddly fine." She commented.

Her dad pursed his shaking lips.

"And that's how I know she's not."

* * *

She kept an eye on her mother for the rest of the day. Poppy spent a while sitting on the sofa with Bristol, her head leaning against his shoulder and his hand between hers, but half her focus remained on her mother at all times. It was strange: whenever their dad went to hold her, she cringed back. But the minute he walked from the room, she rose and followed after him, like the idea of having him out of her sight was nothing short of traumatizing.

It was a fundamental lack of knowing what to do with an upset mum that kept all her children glued to the furniture in their home. Bristol was in the process of completing his pupillage, but he'd phoned and taken off the rest of the week. Ellie was already on her way down from Wales, Miles had emailed his professors and let them know he'd be missing at least one day of classes, and Lottie had packed overnight bags for her and Elsie. Poppy sat on her mum and dad's bed—because it was oddly enough the one room her mother was avoiding at all costs—and bullshitted the rest of her essay. She emailed it with an apology for her upcoming absence that day. At the moment, she didn't even care if he refused to accept the essay. She was just so worried about her family. And normally, as a Political Economy major, the coursework topics seemed way more important than the usual trivial stuff—but this was different. This was her parents in pain, and it was nothing short of petrifying.

When she ventured back downstairs, Lottie and Elsie were just arriving. Elsie ran full speed through the house, yelling out in joy for her "grandsy and grandda", indifferent to the sense of foreboding the house held. And, for Poppy's parents' sakes, they did a wonderful job compartmentalizing their suffering for their granddaughter. Poppy found them all in the kitchen, Elsie in the Doctor's arms, chatting like nothing was wrong at all. But later, when Clara picked Elsie up, Poppy saw her press her face against her hair for a moment and let out an exhalation that almost seemed like a shudder.

And it was all strangely unreal after that point. Poppy's dad spent most of the day struggling to choke back his tears; Clara went into any room he did but found something to do in each room (vacuuming, dusting, organizing); Lottie spent a long while with Bristol; and Miles and Poppy watched it all from what felt like the sidelines, never interfering for fear of saying or doing the wrong thing.

When Ellie finally showed up—without her new husband—she hugged her dad and witnessed him fall apart. He cried into her shoulder and Ellie cried too and Poppy couldn't handle it; she had to retreat to the opposite end of the house, because she was crying, too.

She hid in the bathroom off the room that had been her grandfather's and phoned Charles. She sobbed violently as she told him what had happened. And even though nothing he said could make the situation better, it helped to hear: _I love you, and it's all going to be okay. _Right then, she would have taken his engagement ring in front of her entire family.

* * *

Clara continued her frenzied unrest throughout the night.

Even though she didn't force him to, the Doctor stayed by her side. Poppy ventured down for a glass of water at four and found her mum at the kitchen table, working almost furiously on something that looked like a hard drive. Her dad was snoozing lightly on the bench underneath the window. He had a pillow from their bed with him, like he'd been carrying it around and snoozing any place his wife went. The sight made Poppy's throat tighten.

The first time she saw her mum relax for even a moment was the next morning at breakfast. When she made her way into the kitchen, her brother was at the table with a bottle of vodka and the jug of orange juice, mixing what appeared to be a screwdriver. Their mum was folding tea towels, but she ditched that for the sake of sitting down in the chair beside Bristol's. She reached for the bottle of vodka, and Poppy thought she was snatching it from her son—until she unscrewed the top and pulled a glass over to herself. She filled it with an alarming amount, her hands quivering so hard she almost dropped the bottle. Bristol stared, slack jawed, as she lifted the glass to her lips and took a disgustingly huge sip. She hardly flinched.

Their dad was equally exhausted and stressed. He pulled the glass from her.

"Your liver will thank me for this."

Her glare was so cold that even Poppy shivered. Poppy spotted Bristol pouring half his drink into another glass. He handed the glass to his mother and then topped them both off with more vodka. He'd only just screwed the lid back on before the Doctor stormed back over and snatched the bottle, indifferent to the cocktail party that'd just gone on at the breakfast table.

"And I don't care how old you are, son. No vodka at the table." He looked to the drink in front of his son and nodded. "Orange juice is much more acceptable."

Poppy watched Bristol lift his mixed drink. He nodded in agreement.

"Right you are, Dad. Cheers."

Clara clinked her glass against Bristol's.

* * *

Poppy sought out her siblings later that day. It took a good thirty minutes to arrange a place and time for them to all meet, but by four that afternoon, they were all waiting in Poppy's old bedroom. She'd only just sat down before they all started talking at once.

"Mum's going to—"

"I think it's quite traumatizing for—"

"There are no eulogies at Catholic funerals, did you know that?"

"I think Dad's—"

Poppy watched and waited. Once all their intermingled sentences trailed off, she looked to her eldest brother.

"How was mum after your drinking competition this morning?" She asked. Her tone was colder than intended. But, for whatever reason, she held her brother responsible.

"What?" Her other siblings asked, confused.

Poppy stared at her brother as she retold the morning's events. None of them seem quite as bothered by it as she did. It took her halfway through the meeting to understand what it was that had upset her so.

"It's just…it was so…" she trailed off, guilty for the word she'd almost used. She didn't want to say immature. "It wasn't like mum at all."

"Lay off her," Bristol snapped, furious and short-tempered. "That was her fucking dad, Poppy. She's allowed to get pissed if she wants to. Just because you and dad have level-heads or whatever sodding else doesn't mean—"

Ellie reached over and set her hand over Bristol's mouth, halting his words. He glared furiously at her.

"Stop jumping down her throat. Let her explain herself." Ellie argued.

"She doesn't mean it against Mum." Miles agreed. He looked at her patiently. "What's up, Poppy?"

She faltered, horrified and guilty, because in a way…she did mean it against their mum. Just not in a mean-spirted way.

"It was just hard to see. It was frightening. It didn't seem like my mum." She admitted. Her voice shook. She looked down at her hands. She didn't say it, but she was afraid she was losing her somehow. Afraid the grief would take her away, and more than anything, she needed her mum so she could handle her own grief. She couldn't deal with this properly until her mum was holding her close, but she wouldn't hold anyone right now.

Miles rose from the chair in front of her desk. He crossed over and sat beside her on the bed. She fell into his embrace easily and pressed her burning nose into his shoulder. He hugged her warmly as Lottie spoke up.

"I know it must've been really strange. But you've got to remember, Poppy…she saw her mum die, too. She found Grandpa dead. And other than us, he was her only family in this entire world. She doesn't have siblings like we do, or even grandparents or godparents. It was just her, her dad, and her mum and…they're both gone now." Lottie explained.

Ellie's voice was gentle, even if what she was saying was not.

"Imagine what that'd feel like. I don't know about you, but I'd want to drink, too." She whispered.

This time, when Poppy fell to pieces, it was entirely for her mother.

All her life she'd thought her mum was lucky, and she still was in certain ways, but she realized then—horribly and completely—that her mum had _not _had an easy life. Her mum made life look so lovely and simple now, but it hadn't always been that way. Her mum had lived through greater pain than Poppy could even _comprehend._ And she wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge. She couldn't volunteer or write essays about it. She couldn't dedicate her life to lessening it. She was faced with the grandiose suffering of someone she loved more than life itself—and she had to admit that she was powerless to do anything about it.

"How can we help her?"

Bristol rose to his feet. His voice was curt.

"By not judging her. And by reminding her that she's still got family, because she's got us."

He slammed the door as he exited the room.

* * *

The funeral Mass was odd and uncomfortable.

Poppy's family had been anything but religious, so the entire ordeal was bewildering for her. She knew her grandfather was very devout, but he'd never forced his beliefs onto his grandchildren. Bristol was the only one of them who'd ever been to a Mass, but he was shaky and uncertain too.

The wake was a dizzying ordeal, with an abundance of people who made Poppy's mum's northern accent seem slight in comparison. People kept coming up to her and telling her how proud her grandfather was of her, like that was supposed to make things better. _He told us all about your volunteering and published study_, they assured her. _He said you were always the smartest little girl, just like your mum. _

Her mum played hostess almost alarmingly well. She was polite and helpful. She responded to everyone's condolences with such grace that people started to come up to her multiple times, just to tell her something new. But no matter how okay she seemed, she kept a tight grip on the Doctor's hand, so tight her knuckles were white. Poppy examined her dad's face, but if the grip was painful, he didn't show it.

When the wake was finally over, Poppy witness something seep out of her mother. Any and all strength she'd had before seemed to disappear. Her dad was well and truly gone and she had no one left to put an act on for. She bowed her head and did not speak.

* * *

The first time Poppy ever felt truly alone was when she was thirteen.

One thing led to another and she got into a terrible fight with her best friends. It was one of the first real fights she'd ever had with anyone. She wasn't sure how to handle it, and because she didn't often fight (not even with her siblings), she hadn't yet learned that fights weren't always the ends of relationships. She hadn't learned that sometimes they were just a means of solving something. So she stormed up to her room after school that day and locked herself away. She cried into her duvet, and she remembered thinking that she'd be alone forever. She'd never have any more friends. No one would ever like her, would ever care for her. She'd end up all alone with no one's hand in hers.

And then her mum came into her room.

She'd stretched out on the bed beside her daughter and opened her arms, quiet in her worry. Poppy collapsed into her embrace and sobbed heavily into her top, heartbroken and panicked and hating herself. She wept as her mom stroked her hair.

"What's happened?" She asked gently.

"Bee and Simon don't like me anymore. No one will ever like me. I'm terrible." Her cries turned to gasps. "It's my fault. I wouldn't skip class and they really needed me and I wouldn't. I'm a rubbish friend. No one will ever love me on this entire planet."

She cried so hard her head ached. Her mum seemed to be mulling over her words.

"I know someone who loves you. Someone who loved you enough to risk everything for you. Someone who loved you from the minute they first saw you."

She was too distraught to understand. She could feel her cheek sticking to her mother's wet shirt.

"There's no one like that, because I'm not worth anything," she insisted.

"There is someone like that, and she's holding you right now. You're worth everything. You always have been."

But in her distress, it didn't mean much to know her mum loved her. Of course her mum loved her. She was biologically programmed to.

"You're my mum. You have to love me." She hurriedly added on her next statement before her mum could say it. "And that goes for dad, too."

"And your siblings? Do they _have to_ love you?"

Poppy paused. She felt her nose burning more.

"I don't even know if they do." She admitted. "Lottie won't get lunch with me anymore, and Ellie and Bristol are gone, and Miles is too busy for me."

Her mum resumed stroking her hair.

"Lottie's got a lot going on, as do the others, but they love you just the same. They ask about you every single time I talk to them."

She sniffed.

"Every time?"

"Without fail. They love you. I love you. Your dad loves you. Grandpa loves you, Nana loves you, Charlotte loves you, Rory and Amy love you, Uncle Ten and Aunt Rose and Jenny love you. Don't let a fight with your friends lessen that knowledge, love. You are so incredibly loved, and you're lucky to be so loved." Her mum comforted. She sounded a bit teary a moment later. "You can't imagine how much I love you. I could never find the words to explain. I would've died for you before I even knew you. And I still would. And perhaps to you that love doesn't mean as much because it's viewed as expected, but to me, it means everything."

She heard all those names run through her mind and they brought her a rush of comfort. She leaned back and looked up at her mum through tear-soaked eyes. She was sniffling as she leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"I love you, Mum."

"I always knew that, too."

It was the first and last time she ever felt truly alone.

* * *

And then she tried to imagine what it'd feel like to be without her mum's love. And then without her dad's, too. And she could hardly stand it.

She found each of her siblings that night. Her mum had been tucked away in her room all day, quiet and unresponsive. Poppy had tears swelling in her eyes.

"Bristol, you were right." She told him. "We just need to show her she's got us."

She felt oddly nostalgic as they all walked towards their mum's room. How many times had she made this trip as a little girl? Too many to count. And now, this time, she was the one doing the comforting. It felt right, somehow.

She never thought she'd say it, but she felt intense relief upon opening her parents' bedroom door, because her mum was curled up in the Doctor's arms, finally crying. She was sobbing so hard it was silent and aching. Poppy couldn't have walked away then even if she wanted to. She climbed up onto the bed first. She slid over and curled up beside her mum, her cheek pressed against her back. Elsie crawled over her and wedged her way between Clara and the Doctor, so she could curl up in her grandmother's arms. And the rest of Poppy's siblings climbed on up too, something they hadn't done all at once for _years_, not since the last Christmas before Lottie grew up.

Clara wiped at her wet cheeks. She turned and sat up, looking around at her children tearfully.

"Dear God," she muttered, her voice still laden with tears. "When did you all get so old?"

They all laughed, relieved to hear her joking around. Poppy leaned against her mum's side and shut her eyes. She found the words she'd been thinking and she voiced them, indifferent to how much she might be teased for them later.

"We love you, Mum. And we have since the moment we were born. And that's important, and it means something. It means that you're never, ever alone, because you've got us."

Poppy heard her father lean over and kiss Clara's forehead. His voice was gentle and filled to the brim with love.

"Biggest family on earth. Look—we all barely fit on this bed." He laughed.

"All the love in the world that's lost comes back to you." Lottie added. "Somehow, miraculously. It always does. My mum taught me that."

Clara leaned forward and pulled Lottie into a tight hug. Elsie had been cuddled up to the Doctor, but she wormed her way over and between her mum and grandmother. She latched her arms around Lottie's neck and clung onto her.

"Why's Grandsy sad?" She asked loudly.

Lottie kissed Elsie's hair gently.

"Because we all lost someone we love very, very much." She admitted softly.

Poppy heard Clara's breath hitch at that, as if from pain.

"Oh. Davie." Elsie remembered.

"Yes, Davie." Her mum agreed. She pulled her back and looked down at her. She stroked her hair back from her face. "But he's not gone forever and ever. Just until we see him again."

"And when we do we'll have _loads _to tell him!" Elsie exclaimed.

Poppy saw Lottie's eyes fill with tears for the first time. She blinked rapidly. Her daughter watched in confusion as they trailed down her cheeks.

"Yeah, baby. We will. We'll tell him that we missed him and that everyone's all right."

The Doctor wrapped his arm around Clara. He pulled her close to his side and then wrapped his other arm around her, too. She seemed to sink into him.

"Ellie," he said. Ellie met his eyes. "Perhaps now is a good time for your news."

Ellabell hesitated.

"No, Dad, I really don't think—"

He looked at her seriously and then glanced down at his wife, who was weeping once more into his shirt. "I do."

Ellabell pursed her lips. All her siblings looked at her curiously, even Lottie, which told Poppy she'd told no one but their dad. She glanced around at them.

"I'm going to have a baby," she admitted. There was such joy hidden inside her sad tone. She reached forward and touched her mum's calf. "A little girl, Mum. And I'm going to call her Lara."

Clara leaned back from the Doctor and looked at her daughter. After a moment, she beamed so genuinely that no one could doubt her happiness. She moved forward and pulled Ellabell into her arms. She hugged her tightly.

"That's wonderful news," she whispered thickly. She kissed the top of Ellie's head. "I'm so happy for you, love. And I needed something good to look forward to."

Poppy felt Miles nudge her. She turned and looked up at him, a smile still covering her face from Ellie's news. It slid off when she noticed the pointed look he was giving her.

"No way." She hissed at him. Unfortunately, that slight hiss was loud enough to attract everyone's attention. She flushed underneath their stares.

"Go on," Miles urged gently. "It's like I said. No one's going to care about the things you think they will. They only care that you're happy."

The Doctor got understandably concerned.

"…please tell me you're not pregnant, too."

"No!" Poppy yelped quickly. "No! I'm still in university, Dad!"

He let out a long sigh.

"Thank God."

Poppy took a deep breath. She stared down at her hands.

"I'm…dating someone. And it's really very serious. And…I love him. A lot." She admitted.

"That's great!" Her mum exclaimed. Poppy could hear the smile in her voice. "Why wouldn't you want to tell us that?"

Poppy glanced up nervously.

"Because it's Charles."

Her parents blinked. They shared a quick look. And then they smiled.

"I liked Charles." Her dad said. "He seemed kind."

Poppy looked to her mum nervously, but she realized she never had anything to be worried about. She leaned forward and kissed Poppy's forehead.

"As long as you're happy, I'm happy. That's the way it's always been."

Sitting on that bed, in the aftermath of tragedy, Poppy realized she'd been right before. Her mum was lucky. But not for her wealth or education. She had all that, but bad things still happened to her. She was lucky for the love she held and the love she'd passed down to others, because it was the only security that mattered. Love was the greatest wealth there was, the greatest home. And they lived in the grandest one of all.


	7. Doomed

_PART 7/8 | TEN | RATED T  
_

**Doomed**

* * *

Nativists say a child becomes what they're made from.

Empiricists say a child becomes what they experience.

To a little boy that was nothing but a number, the arguments of nature vs. nurture didn't matter so much.

No matter who was right, he was destined to end up holding a smoking gun.

* * *

His little brother was born on the unfinished concrete floor of the first house Ten remembered living in. He hadn't even known his mother was pregnant. He didn't even know what pregnancy was. He stood crying in the hall, watching from the sidelines as the floor soaked with blood and his mother shrieked. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew it was something terrible. And he hated it.

When his father rose to his feet, a slimy, blood-soaked _thing _screaming in his hands, and promptly passed it to his son, Ten felt his stomach compress with disgusted hatred. It was by instinct that he drew his little hands back and let the baby fall to short distance to the dirty hall carpet. It was by instinct that he sprinted down to the opposite end of the hall and collapsed, his arms winding around his legs. His breaths were jagged pants, like when he ran too hard during playtime at school. He didn't understand. His little head ached from the strain of _trying _to understand. It sort of looked like a baby, like the one the neighbors had, but something was wrong with it. It looked like a monster. It was eating his mum. And _why _was it still screaming?

He shook and stared at the pale writhing shadow at the end of the hall. He waited for his dad to come deal with it, but he realized quickly enough that he wouldn't do that. He'd never dealt with anything. After a few moments of waiting, Ten decided to rise and get a better look at what he'd just thrown away.

It had a smushed, almost wrinkly face. It looked purple-ish, too. It might've been a he, whatever it was, but Ten wasn't even sure if it was a person like him. He stared at the creature's screaming, toothless mouth and then leaned forward, deciding it couldn't really hurt him. The screams in the kitchen took coherent form as he drew nearer.

"—JOHN! WHERE'S THE BABY?"

"Ten has him, I already told you. Where are the paramedics?!"

"YOU FUCKING IMBECILE, TEN'S A TODDLER, HE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO HOLD A NEWBORN! HE'LL KILL HIM! LET ME UP! HE'S GOING TO KILL HIM!"

"KATRIN—YOU—STOP! YOU'RE GOING TO BLEED TO DEATH, STOP MOVING!"

Ten understood that the baby was a him and that he was supposed to be holding it. He also understood that his mother cared about it. And that killing was bad, and if he killed him, he would be bad, too. Only…he didn't know how someone killed someone. For all he knew, he was doing it now.

He sat down on the floor and reached forward. He grabbed one of the baby's arms, and then the other, and then he pulled a bit. But his head seemed extra heavy, because it just flopped back, and the baby cried louder. He gently set him back down. He reached for his head this time and scooped a hand behind it. It felt squishy somehow. Then he used his other hand to push underneath the baby's legs. He lifted him slowly and then thought to how Mrs. Wring held her baby. He set the baby's head on his forearm and cradled him.

"I don't like you. You hurt my mummy." Were the first words he ever said it to his brother. The first thing he'd ever done to him was drop him. And he never, ever forgot that.

He'd only been holding him for around a minute when he heard sirens wailing. When he peeked into the kitchen, his mother was lying in that same spot with a bedsheet waded up between her spread legs. It was soaked through with bright blood. He shook, and his arms felt so heavy and tingly, and he was terrified he'd drop the baby and then his mum would be angry with him. But then a man in a dark green uniform appeared in the kitchen and rushed forward, taking the baby from Ten's arms. He watched two others rush towards his mum. And then he found himself looking at his dad's legs. The tall man's voice was freezing.

"Here we go again." His dad spat.

Ten didn't know where they were going, but he could tell his father didn't want to go.

* * *

At the hospital, nobody saw him.

Especially not his parents. He cried and he cried, but his mum did nothing but stare off into space from her hospital bed, and his dad covered his ears with his hands. When his baby brother woke up and cried along with him, Ten's father got up and stormed from the room, his ears bright red.

Ten was confused and scared. He wanted his mummy, but whenever he tried to crawl onto the bed to be with her, she turned so her back was to him. She responded to nothing. Not even his brother.

It was hours before a nurse noticed him. She took his hand in hers (Ten was scared at first, because his mum took his hand when she was angrily pulling him away from something, but the nurse didn't seem angry at all). He sat with her in a room with a nice sofa and a water machine with paper cone cups. She let him fill as many cups as he liked and soon his tummy hurt from drinking so much cold water. Her voice was soft and nice as she explained all about pregnancy and what had happened to his mum.

"She'll be just fine now," she reassured him gently. "And now you have a Brand New Brother."

She said it like there was nothing grander in the entire world. Ten had too many thoughts in his head.

"She might seem sad. That's because sometimes mummies get scared after they have babies. There's a big word for it, but it just means they're ill in a way you can't see. She might not be as smiley or huggy with you. But she'll be all right."

Ten looked down at his feet. He didn't tell the nurse, but he realized that his mum must have been secretly ill for his entire life. Because she always acted like that.

* * *

It was only two years later when he fully understood why she'd said Brand New Brother like that.

"Ten, we've got to go pick up something, keep an eye on your brother."

_Your _brother.

Ten looked at the toddling child—who was all smiles and elbows—and realized he was his responsibility. He was his to protect. Ten was a child, too, but now he was more than that. And he strived to make up for his first actions towards his little brother. He'd protect him.

* * *

As he got older, his parents got worse, and he tumbled headlong into fiction to guard himself.

Books pulled him away from his home and made him forget about his mum and dad's screaming and throwing, so he soon relied on them so much that he got anxious whenever he didn't have one in his hands. He read every single book he could get his hands on—it didn't matter the subject area. He used the library at his primary school more than any other student it seemed, but during the summers, he found himself terrifyingly bookless. At first, he nicked book after book from his great aunt's house, but then he exhausted that resource. He started walking to the public library after school, the Doctor tagging along behind, and that provided a lot of books for a long while. But then the Doctor accidentally knocked over a shelf and the librarian informed them that they could not come back again without an adult. Ten sat on the curb after that and blinked back tears, because he had no adult to bring. His brother stared at him, stricken.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He was sitting beside his brother on the curb. He nervously knocked his boney knees together. "I didn't mean to mess up."

Ten felt his heart still. He jerked his head to his brother and stared at him, horrified because that's something their dad said. _You messed up. Go to your room. I don't want to see you anymore. _Ten found himself maniacally shaking his head and he couldn't seem to stop it.

"No." He said. His brother looked down at his lap. "_No_. No. You didn't mess up. It's okay."

He looked up at him, his green eyes wide and echoing with cautious hope.

"But we can't come back here anymore." He reminded his brother uneasily. He ducked his head and waited, his ears growing red. It occurred to Ten that he expected punishment so completely that not receiving it would probably unsettle him. That realization left his mouth sour.

"Well, then we'll just figure out somewhere else to go. Maybe we can walk the city. There's loads of libraries there and no one even knows us at them."

And he truly meant to do it that way. But he came to find out that it just wasn't possible to walk that far in one day without missing dinner and arriving home at bedtime. He spent one night lying in his bed with his stomach roaring with hunger and decided he'd have to find another way.

* * *

The other way was illegal.

But he wasn't so sure he cared anymore. His parents did illegal stuff all the time. And he was his parents' child.

He'd walked into the book shop with the intention of stealing _The Hobbit, _but after wandering about for fifteen minutes, he noticed the shop attendant peeking up at him suspiciously every few seconds. He felt his heart jolt with panic and he acted on instinct. He turned to the next aisle—just out of her sight—and grabbed the first book his hand touched. He shoved it into his school bag and spent a few more minutes pretending to peruse books for his age, his heart thumping wildly in his chest (so hard he could feel the rhythm in his _cheeks)_, and then he strolled quickly from the store.

He pulled the book free once he was hidden away in his bedroom.

_An Everyday Miracle: Delivering Babies, Caring for Women - A Lifetime's Work. _

He stared at the newborn infant on the cover and realized it was every bit as deformed looking as his brother had been that terrifying night he hardly remembered now. Deep down he was disappointed, but he read the book anyway. He cracked the spine on a Wednesday night and finished it Thursday morning as he was getting ready for school, having had no sleep the night prior. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was enamored by every word on every page. After hours of reading heartfelt stories of births, of parents weeping with joy and love, he realized something. The day his brother was born was a miracle. There was nothing wrong with it. His parents were the broken ones.

He wanted to be part of those stories.

* * *

His parents' fighting swelled in frequency and degree.

He'd gotten so used to hearing them scream terrible things. He'd gotten used to hearing: _I wish I'd never married you, I wish I was dead, I wish you were dead, I wished we'd never met, I wish we'd never had kids_!

He tried to make up for dropping his brother in his first hours of life by shielding him from those things. Whenever they would start quarreling, he'd take his little brother by the hand and pull him out into the garden. They'd sit inside a giant, soggy cardboard box they'd stolen from the neighbors' bin and he'd grab that book he'd stolen. His brother would lean against his side and listen as he read story after story. _My first patient was a woman named Karen, and when she finally held her baby, she told me all the sadness of her past was erased…_

His brother would eventually nod off. But Ten would keep reading those stories aloud. And then he'd lie. He lied more than he told the truth.

"When you were born, Mum and Dad cried, and they were so happy." His sleeping brother kept on sleeping. Ten looked down at the medical illustrations in the book. "It's 'cause they made something really good. It was the first time they'd done that."

That night, the fighting went on 'till dawn.

* * *

It was two days until Christmas. Ten was nine years old. They had a Christmas tree for the very first time he could remember.

The Doctor believed things were getting better. He bounced atop the bed, a smile stretched over his face, and theorized that perhaps Santa was going to visit now that they had a tree. In his innocent eyes, things were getting better. But Ten didn't trust anything anymore, except his brother and himself. There was a tree, but there was also fighting and screaming and weeping (and sometimes hitting). It went on all night every single night. The Doctor was so used to it now that he could sleep through it. Ten could not.

And maybe it was his fault. Perhaps he'd been the one to cause it all. Because it was two days before Christmas, and his mum was in an oddly affectionate mood, but when the Doctor accidentally fell and scraped his knee, it was not her he ran to. It wasn't his mother he stumbled towards, his cheeks wet with tears, his palm cupping over his bloody skin. It was his brother.

Ten saw the way his mother's face crumbled. He saw the realization dawn on her. The realization that it was too late; she'd lost her children. It didn't really matter if she'd decided to try now. The Doctor had turned six at the beginning of December, and the only thing he'd learnt in those six years was that there was only one person he could count on. And it was not her.

That night, the fighting was nastier and more horrific than it'd ever been. Ten held the Doctor in their double bed and whispered made up stories. He'd left his stolen book in the sitting room and he was too frightened to go retrieve it. _One day you'll be a dad, _he told his brother. _And you'll be so happy and you'll cry and you'll always love your kid. I'll be the baby's uncle. And I'll love it, too. And no one will ever scream. _

He heard his mother shrieking through her tears.

_This is your fault! You did this! You made them hate me! You made them _you_! And I _hate _you! _

"Please," he told his brother. While he was sleeping, he looked as innocent as he had when he was a baby. His words were shaking with tears he couldn't shed. Not yet. It wasn't safe yet. "I want all the sadness of the past to be erased."

He was still naïve enough to believe it could be that easy.

* * *

His brother had been wrong in the most disgusting way.

The tree was not a promise of a better future. The tree was a blood-soaked apology.

The fighting grew so violent on Christmas Eve that the Doctor became terrified. So terrified he had an accident in their bed, and that only made him more frightened, because he was afraid of their dad finding out while he was so angry.

"Don't tell him!" The Doctor pleaded with his brother. He was crying so hard he was shaking. "Don't tell him! I'm sorry!"

Ten's heart was pounding, and somehow, he knew they needed to flee. But he was just a little boy. The only relative they had was their Aunt Tara, but she was almost an hour away. He did the only thing he could do at the time: he pulled all the wet linens off their bed, he scrubbed at the mattress with a wet flannel, he threw the sheet and duvet into the laundry basket. The Doctor grabbed his favorite (and only) toy—a stuffed badger with matted fur—and huddled inside the wardrobe. He wept quietly while Ten cleaned and paced.

And then the cries of pain started, the crashing of objects, the frantic panting and thumping footsteps as his parents fought throughout the night. They made final declarations in screaming voices. For once, they reached an understanding. _I wish I was dead. I wish I was, too. I wish we both were_.

Their father must have smacked their mother particularly hard, because there was a sharp sound, and then they heard her gasp aloud painfully. That sound was broken enough to break through the Doctor's fear. He crawled from the wardrobe—still shaking and pale—and he didn't even pause to glance at his brother. He hurried to the door and ran out.

"MUM!" He shrieked. Ten felt his heart bottom out. He chased after him so quickly that he slipped on the pile of dirty clothes in the hall. He landed hard on his knees. "MUMMY!"

"DOCTOR!" Ten screamed after his brother. He jumped back up and limped the rest of the way to the sitting room.

The only thing he saw was a scene of Too Late. In the years that past, he would never find another way to describe it. His parents were both holding glinting weapons, his brother had his arms around their mother's calves, and his parents didn't seem to be inside their bodies at all.

Ten didn't have to be told to do it. He rushed forward and yanked his brother away from their mother. He dragged his kicking body over to the hall. It took much longer with him fighting, but he felt a surge of strength he hadn't had before. And—somehow—he knew what was about to happen. He knew, but he couldn't get himself to look away. Perhaps he didn't care about himself enough.

He'd only just grasped his little brother's face and pressed it into his shirt when he saw it. There were flashes of light, smoke, and both his parents jumped back only to crumple down. Blood streaked everything: the walls, their new tree, the paper ornaments the Doctor had made for them at school. The dark pool of blood grew and grew until the tree skirt could suck it all up. The blood was not smooth. It was thick and there were bits of stuff in it. He looked at it and realized it was his parents' brains, their memories. Their faces were nothing more than gaping holes.

Ten could feel his brother shaking. The Doctor yanked back long enough to look, just once, but that one look had been enough. Ten grabbed him as he vomited all over the carpet. He lifted him up and he carried him from the house, even though he felt so shaky he could hardly lift the phone.

For the second time he could remember, men in dark green flooded into his home. But this time, they were not saving any lives. This time, it was Too Late.

* * *

They'd only been at their Aunt Tara's house for a few hours when the doorbell rang.

Ten opened it to find a little girl in red. Her cheeks were pink with happiness and she even had a dimple peeking out above her huge, honest smile.

And he decided he hated her for it. He hated her for being so happy when he was so sad. He hated her for having two parents who loved her, for being so innocent, for having nothing but beautiful Christmas memories. And, later, he came to hate her for inviting the Doctor into her family and stealing him away. The Doctor was all Ten had. But once that little girl opened her home to him, he was hardly around at all.

Ten couldn't blame him. What did Ten have to offer? He was severely broken. He had vivid nightmares every single night. He could hardly speak. So he couldn't blame him for seeking comfort wherever comfort was available, but he could blame the girl.

Most of all, he hated her because she could save his brother in ways he'd never been able to. And he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Tara wanted so terribly to help them both, but in the end, no one could hold a candle to that girl. She seemed to have been born knowing how to help the Doctor. After less than a year, she knew him better than Ten and Tara did. It'd happened quietly and without them noticing. Sort of like how Katrin's children had grown up from underneath her. And he was no longer just Ten's brother. He was Clara's friend, too.

He was so jealous he could hardly speak some days.

* * *

"Teeeeeeeeen!"

It was nine in the morning and Ten was _exhausted_. The sound of his little brother's friend's voice flittering through is closed door did nothing to help that. He ignored her.

"Ten, we need someone to be the bank manager!" She persisted. She waited, and when no response came, she continued on. "I'm Cara, the Doctor is Johnny, and we're robbing a bank, only no one suspects us because we're just an innocent married people with a baby named Elsie."

"Clara. Go _away_." Ten snapped.

"You're Mr. Tenure. You own the bank. You suspect us, only no one believes you, 'cause we're so cute and nice."

"I don't want to play with you."

"We hide the money inside Elsie's pram. You take the pram to look for it. Then all the people in the bank jump on you for stealing our little baby."

"CLARA, I'M NOT PLAYING! GO AWAY!"

"Then we cry. The police come and take you far far away to jail. We get away with it and buy a million sweets shops."

He grabbed his pillow and pressed it over his head until her words were nothing but a jumbled, incoherent mass.

He hated that he'd gotten stuck with an annoying little sister. He hated that he didn't even have a mum to complain to about it.

He hated that he was still too unwell to play. Or even have any friends of his own.

* * *

It came together and fell apart.

She lost her mother like Ten had lost his, but when it happened, he found he wasn't happy about it even a little bit. He cried, too. Perhaps it was because he was better by that point. He had three friends and he really fancied one of them. He wasn't feeling so jealous and unwell. So he wrote a letter to his brother to tell him to come home, to be with Clara, but Tara caught him and tore it up.

"She's not what he needs, Ten. She's like Katrin. She'll turn him bad like your mum turned your dad bad."

And, well. He didn't want anyone to have a childhood like his. So he believed her.

* * *

Ten fell in love with Rose only to lose her when he went to university. He dated a girl named Elizabeth throughout his schooling, though he always had a soft spot for the blonde woman he'd first loved.

When it came time for the Doctor to split from Clara in a similar way, he made a different choice.

Instead of moving a few hours from her, he fled the country with her. Tara was furious. Ten thought they were foolish. But it was that proclamation of reckless love that convinced him to phone Rose again. And that one decision changed the course of his life forever.

* * *

He'd been dating Rose again for six months when his brother rang him and informed him he was to marry Clara.

Ten didn't tell Tara until he was already on his way to the airport.

Loving Rose and being loved back helped him understand his brother's actions, and because of that, he had no interest in interfering with their relationship. Not anymore.

* * *

And really, it was all what they'd both been leading up to. Ten had made it so.

He became an obstetrician and he loved every moment of it. He adored being part of these parents' happiest moments. He loved being the one to safely bring new life into the world (life that was not dropped like it meant nothing). But soon it wasn't enough for him; he wanted to be that father. He wanted to feel tears swelling in his eyes. And once he'd had his beautiful daughter, he saw the same desire forming in his brother's eyes.

Even though he knew now how _difficult _being a parent was, and how it didn't really solve anything, there was still a subconscious part of Ten that thought back to what he'd read in that stolen book.

There was still a part of both him and his brother that believed a baby would make things so wonderful that every past misery would disappear.

* * *

And perhaps it was true.

The Doctor met Ten at their preferred pub a day before Halloween. His brother had been late, so Ten had ordered him his favorite pint. He'd expected some news about his brother's neurosurgery training. But when the Doctor slid into the booth—starry-eyed and beaming, with poorly covered hickeys lining his scarf-clad throat—he understood it was something much different.

"Oh, brilliant!" He exclaimed. He grabbed the glass and immediately took a huge sip. Ten laughed.

"I'm guessing the married life is still going great?"

The Doctor lowered the glass. His hands were shaking with excitement. He couldn't contain the words. They seemed to shake and burst from his lips.

"Clara's pregnant!" He beamed with such joy that Ten felt his own heart swell. He watched his brother's eyes grow glassy. He blinked a few times, but the film of tears persisted. "We're going to have a baby! Our baby!"

Ten reached for his own glass for something to do. He drank to keep from jumping up and hugging his brother so tightly it hurt. He grinned right back at him.

"That's great, Doctor. I'm so happy for you. You're going to love being a dad. Best thing there is."

The Doctor reached down into his pockets and fumbled for a moment. His voice was nasally when he began speaking, once he'd produced the sonogram picture and set it atop the table.

"I'm already a dad, see?" He said softly, proudly. He gently touched the image. "That's my daughter."

Ten smiled. He could've warned him not to get too attached, because accidents could happen that early on in the pregnancy, but he wouldn't be like his father.

"I can't wait to meet her."

* * *

His brother was happier on the day his daughter was born than anyone Ten had ever seen.

He'd seen fathers cry, of course. He'd cried himself when Jenny was born. But his little brother wept like it was the first time he'd ever felt joy so fully. He wept like he didn't even know what to do with the feeling. And Ten was sure that everything in his brother's life had well and truly been mended. Despite the odds, despite everything…he felt his brother had fully recovered. It was what he'd always wanted.

He didn't think _he_ had, though. He still sometimes woke up in moods and was aloof with his wife and daughter. He still had nightmares. He still couldn't stand to even _see _a gun, and as he grew, he realized he didn't just despise them because they'd taken his parents away. He despised them because he was terrified he'd end up holding one one day.

His job and family helped keep those thoughts at bay most of the time. And through no little effort on his part, Christmases became times of joy again.

* * *

On what was to be his niece's first Christmas, Tara decided they should all go on holiday together.

They were supposed to leave at the beginning of December—so they could celebrate the Doctor's birthday with him as well—but his job ended up conflicting with those plans at the last minute. They were renting a cottage in West Sussex for the month and they'd already made their reservations when the Oswald-Smiths informed them they couldn't make it down there until the twentieth. And because they couldn't, Dave Oswald postponed his arrival as well. They were all planning on taking the little girls to see the garden of lights at Standen, but they had to get their tickets switched to a later date. Tara was crosser than Ten had ever seen and spent a long while complaining about Clara during the drive, as if it were her fault. Ten tried to gently remind her that it was _the Doctor's _job that'd caused the delay, but she didn't seem to care. Ten knew it was going to be a long holiday.

Things were all right the first part of the month—he had a lot of fun going cycling with his wife and daughter and Tara seemed in high spirits for most of it. But when the Oswalds were due to arrive, she grew frazzled and irritated. She sulked about the kitchen and Ten couldn't understand it.

"You were the one who wanted the massive family holiday. With us and the Oswalds. Why are you acting like this?" He demanded.

She was stirring her tea almost aggressively. She didn't turn around as she responded.

"Because I don't think he'd care at all if he couldn't see us for the holidays. I don't think he misses us a single bit."

Ten was usually the only one privy to Tara's sensitivity. He sighed.

"Come on, you know that's not true. He loves us. He's just got a lot going on right now." Ten explained. He paused. "I know Clara frustrates you. I'm not really her biggest fan all the time, either. I think she can be quite bossy and vain and I don't always appreciate that. But she loves the Doctor so much, and he loves her, and it'll make his holiday miserable if you treat her badly. Just try to see her how he sees her, all right? Treat her like you love her. Even if you don't."

Privately, it frightened Ten to think that Tara didn't love Clara. He loved her, even if she annoyed him. He didn't know how someone could be around someone for that many years and _not _love them. He cared for her simply because he'd watched her grow up alongside him, and because of that, he at least felt protective over her. He might've wanted to yell at her sometimes, but had anyone ever tried to harm her in his presence, he would've made his brotherly feelings known. She was perpetually a nagging little sister in his mind, and he was perpetually a know-it-all, aloof big brother in hers, and all their arguments stemmed from that. They understood it and it was usually all in expected jest. But with Tara and Clara it was something different. Darker. They couldn't stand each other and Ten wasn't sure if they'd ever be able to.

For the Doctor's sake, he hoped so.

* * *

The Oswalds didn't arrive until almost seven on the twentieth.

Ten had been returning from a walk with Jenny when the car pulled up. She squealed with excitement as soon as her blue eyes fell on the vehicle.

"DOCTA!" She tugged on her father's hand, impatient and quivering. "CLARA! LOTTA!"

Ten chuckled and leaned over to lift his daughter. He kissed her cheek and walked them calmly over to the car once it pulled up to the garage, the utter opposite to his daughter's thrilled fit. She flung herself towards her uncle as soon as he exited the vehicle. The Doctor held her tightly in a hug and then kissed the top of her head, laughing with joy. He looked up and met his brother's eyes.

"I wish everyone greeted me like this!" He teased.

"_I _greet you like that," came the playful reply. Ten looked to the back of the car—where the words had echoed from—and watched as Clara gently lifted their sleepy baby from the car seat. She held her close and pressed her cheek to the top of her head as she turned, indifferent to the car doors still opened and their bags still piled high in the boot. She rubbed Lottie's little back as her eyelids drifted back shut.

"Or, at least, something _close _to that," Clara continued. She met the Doctor's eyes and they shared a quick grin, one that was interrupted by Jenny leaning over to kiss her aunt. It always made Ten relieved to see Jenny responding lovingly to Clara, because he'd been worried from the start that his adoptive mother's prejudice would rub off on his daughter. He'd been very firm from the start that Tara was not to act coldly around Clara when his little girl was around, and she'd been pretty forthcoming with that so far.

"Can I play with Lotta?" Jenny asked Clara. She'd been waiting _weeks _for them to arrive. It was all extremely exciting for her.

"Of course!" Her uncle assured her. "She'll love to play with you! Right now she's really sleepy—see, her eyes are shut—but perhaps after dinner you two can play."

Ten glanced down at his toddler. He was expecting a meltdown. She was at the "me first" "not later, right now" stage of toddlerhood. But she merely examined the baby's tranquil face thoughtfully and then nodded.

"Babies need so much sleep." She shared wisely.

The three adults laughed.

* * *

"My cousin is here!" Jenny announced.

She barreled through the doorway and ran through the cottage in search of her mum and nana. Ten helped the Doctor carry their suitcases into the house and to the room they were staying in. He could hear Clara chatting with her daughter as she walked behind them.

"Oh, look at that! How pretty. We're going to stay here until after New Years. We're on holiday with your aunt and uncle and nana. Grandpa is due to arrive any moment. We're all going to be…"

Ten couldn't help it. It'd been too long since he'd picked on her.

"Hey, Clara?" He called. He directed the words over his shoulder as they walked. He saw her lift her head and look at him, an easy smile still on her face.

"Yeah?" She asked.

"It's an eight month old baby. She can only remember things for a few seconds at a time." He reminded her.

"Well, so can you, but that never stopped us from explaining things to you, did it?" She shot right back. He glared ahead as she turned right back to Lottie, unfazed. "We're going to spend Christmas here with everyone who loves you and we're going to go see beautiful Christmas lights."

He heard his niece babble happily into her mother's neck.

"Mmmmah," she cooed.

Ten glanced to his right. His brother had that huge, soul-consuming grin on again. He didn't have to look back at his sister-in-law to know she looked the same.

"Lottieeee," Clara cooed right back. And he wanted to tease her some more, but the look his brother shot him convinced him perhaps that wouldn't be the best thing to do.

* * *

Once they had everything settled in the guest room, the Oswalds joined everyone in the sitting room.

Tara hugged the Doctor tightly and stroked a hand over Lottie's hair. She gave Clara a stiff, cordial pat on the shoulder, but that was as much as she could manage. They both seemed to exhale the breath they'd been holding when Tara moved away, as if they both feared they'd be roped into a hug of some sort.

Jenny tugged relentlessly on Rose's trousers as Clara embraced her mother. The Doctor had Lottie now and he'd never seemed more pleased to be holding something. He gripped her legs with his hands and turned her around so she was facing outwards. He gently bounced her up and down and walked to the side of their little group, singing something to her underneath his breath. Whatever it was, Lottie adored it. She leaned back against his chest with the happiest smile Ten had ever seen on a baby. She stared up at the light fixture in wonder as her father twirled her around.

"Mummy," Jenny protested. "Can I hold the baby?"

Rose and Clara ceased their conversation and glanced down at the toddler. Rose looked to Clara for an answer.

"Absolutely. Why don't you go sit on the sofa and we'll bring her over?" Clara suggested. Jenny jumped up and down so rapidly her ponytail swung around and wacked her in the face. She didn't seem to mind.

Once Lottie was sat in Jenny's lap, Tara cleared her throat. She had a way of clearing her throat with such authority that everyone in the room immediately fell silent.

"So, Doctor. How was your birthday?" Her words were stiff, curt. The Doctor hadn't seemed to notice. He beamed and plopped down on the sofa beside Clara. He rubbed her thigh and smiled at her before turning back to his adoptive mother.

"Brilliant! It was my favorite birthday to date!" He slid his hand to his wife's inner thigh and then knocked his shoulder into hers. "I had my Clara and my Lottie. What more could a bloke need?"

Clara looked down at her lap and grinned hugely. Ten braced himself for Tara's explosion.

"Oh. I guess it was silly of me to think you might have missed us."

The Doctor turned and looked at Tara in confusion. It took him a moment, but he got there.

"Oh…oh! No, um, I didn't mean that—it's just that...well, I just had a really good birthday! It wasn't good _because _you lot weren't around! It was just great all on its own?"

He trailed off, uncertain whether or not he'd pulled his foot from his mouth. Judging by Tara's expression, he hadn't.

"I'm glad you had a great birthday, Doctor." Rose spoke up firmly. She reached over and grabbed Lottie—who had turned and begun looking desperately at Clara—from her daughter and passed her back to Clara. Lottie grabbed onto her like she hadn't seen her in hours and Clara gripped her in a similar way. She pressed her face into her daughter's hair and didn't seem to hear a bit of the insults that came her way next.

"Well, of course it was. You just have yourself your wife and no one else matters, do they?" Tara bit. Her words quivered, but whether from anger or hurt, Ten couldn't tell. "What a poor excuse for a life purpose."

Ten glanced to Clara. She hadn't even looked up. She pressed kisses to Lottie's face and rose from the sofa.

"Changing time," she whispered to her husband. She turned and looked at everyone else. Her eyes were still sparkling with innocent contentment. She was unaware of the cruel words being thrown her way.

"I'll be right back!" She told them. She hurried from the room, already beginning another one-sided conversation with her baby. Once she was gone, the Doctor grew cold, as if she was taking his warmth with her. He stood up to follow after her, but he paused in the doorway. He turned and stared at Tara.

"One more statement like that, and we'll leave." He swore. He'd never looked angrier. Rose shared a surprised look with Ten. "She doesn't deserve this shit on Christmas. Or ever, for that matter. Don't speak of my wife again if you can't speak kindly. I mean that. I don't want to hear her name come from your lips again, Tara."

He slammed the sitting room door.

Tara flinched like Katrin used to.

* * *

Ten kept a careful eye on his brother during dinner that night.

He'd never expected to see pieces of his parents in him. He'd always assumed that he was the only one with hidden darkness lurking about. But he couldn't forget the emptiness in his brother's green eyes when he'd slammed that door.

For all the harshness he'd exhibited in that one moment, he showed a thousand times more warmth during the meal. He and Clara sat so close together that their chairs were flush against each other and their hips were touching. They took turns cradling Lottie in their laps and chatting with her. And they were there but they weren't. They participated in conversations, but they didn't really. Ten got the impression from both of them that they always had at least one half of their attention on their daughter at all times. Because of this, she was cared for so tenderly and completely that Ten couldn't help but think they needed more children. There was too much attention allotted to her and not enough need for it. After Ten witnessed the married couple actually arguing over whose turn it was to change her, he decided his prior thought was more a fact that a theory. They both seemed to want to take care of their baby more than anything else in the world.

It was the stark opposite of the way their father had been. And because of that, Ten stopped worrying so much.

(But he couldn't help but wonder…

Was there a doomed person on the opposite side of the spectrum?

His father hadn't loved his family enough and it'd ultimately destroyed him.

Could there be a man who loved his family _too much_? Enough to bring ruin?

Tara certainly thought so.)

* * *

He was returning from a trip to the kitchen when he passed the Oswalds' door. He had a sippy cup of water in his hand for his daughter and he wanted more than _anything _to convince her to go to sleep so he could, but the sound of singing made him stop in place. He slowed and then came to a standstill so he could peek through the cracked door, curious and partly jealous that his brother still had enough energy to do anything but fall asleep standing.

He saw what he expected to see. The small family curled up in bed, the Doctor singing a song to their child, Clara smiling softly with her eyes shut. But the expected nature of the sight didn't make it mean any less to Ten.

He leaned against the hall wall and listened to his brother sing _You Are My Sunshine. _The way he sang it, those two girls never could've believed any differently. There was a cot set up for Lottie, but Ten could tell from the cozy way the family was curled up that she wasn't sleeping anywhere but in one of her parent's arms. Ten exhaled in exhaustion and tried to decide what he felt. He was always torn between joy that his brother was so happy and fear that he one day wouldn't be.

He supposed it was because of the lesson he'd learned at such a young age. That nothing really stays.

"_You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away_…oh, Clara, she's asleep." There was a pause. "And you are, too."

His brother chuckled to himself. Ten felt he was intruding on something deeply private when he peeked in and saw him pressing kisses to both their foreheads. The Doctor started to attempt to push them both off him so he could get up to turn the lights out, but Ten stepped forward and made his presence known. He reached for the light so the Doctor didn't have to risk waking the baby up again. Ten remembered how hard it was to get Jenny to sleep at that age.

The Doctor jumped in surprise. His ears grew hot in embarrassment.

"I'll make fun of you tomorrow." Ten yawned.

His brother laughed as he shut the bedroom door for him.

* * *

There were reservations in the way he loved.

He wanted to apologize to Rose for that.

But it wasn't his fault; he'd been the one to see it all. The Doctor was too young. He got away. He made it home safely. He walked from that bloody house and he forgot what a gun smelt like.

Ten hadn't been so lucky. And he could see that fact reflected in the different ways they loved. He could remember it in the guilty sting of resentment he felt each time he saw his brother filled to the brim with joy.

* * *

His brother had only been there for a few hours. Dave hadn't even arrived yet. For all intents and purposes, their Christmas holiday hadn't truly begun. And Ten was already waking to the sound of his little brother sniffling.

It didn't matter how old they were. It didn't matter how far apart they grew. It didn't even matter that they had three walls separating them. Ten heard it with ease and woke fully.

He scanned his eyes over his wife and daughter as he rose—to make sure they were sleeping soundly—and then he shuffled tiredly down the hall. He paused outside of the Oswalds' shut door and strained his ears. Perhaps his brother was fine now. Perhaps he'd made it all up.

But that same sound came again—quiet and secretive. The Doctor had learned at a very young age how to hide his sadness and fear and it stayed with him. Ten had learned at a very young age not to feel it.

He wasn't really sure what to say when he pushed the door open to find his brother hunched over, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He just knew he immediately felt his heart rate spike, as if his body was preparing to flee from some sort of imminent danger. He hovered in the doorway.

"Doctor?"

His brother lowered his hands and snapped his gaze to the doorway. He immediately lifted a shaking finger and pressed it over his lips, jerking his head towards his sleeping family in explanation. Ten nodded and then motioned for him to come into the hall. The Doctor looked like he wanted to refuse, but after a few moments of blinking rapidly, he surrendered.

He closed the door behind him slowly and carefully, mindful not to alert the girls in the room. Ten led him to the dark, empty sitting room, not saying anything as they walked because he wasn't even sure what _to _say. When the time came for him to speak, he acted on instinct.

"Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?"

His brother might as well have been four years old. He looked down at his knees and didn't respond. Ten understood the silent affirmation.

"What of?"

He was quiet. Ten stared at the moonlight illuminating his stricken features. He looked nothing short of petrified.

"It's just very close to Christmas. My dreams are…not really dreams. My mind is panicky. And Clara…" he trailed off. He glanced up at his brother, his eyes leaking with vulnerability. "She's got this nasty bruise on her leg. I know it's nothing. Logically, medically, I know it's not been around for long enough to worry. But ever since I spotted it, I've been counting them, you know? When we're-well, I _see them_ now. Do you—does this sound anything but mad?"

Ten hesitated.

"You're worried about a bruise on your wife?" He clarified hesitantly.

"No. Yes—no. Not really the bruise. I know the bruise is okay. It's the fact that I'm counting them. It's like I'm…"

His words cut off with a shuddered intake of breath. All at once, Ten understood fully. He leaned forward.

"It's like you're preparing yourself for an ending?"

His brother's voice was thick and full of childish obstinacy.

"But it's not the end. This is—this is the beginning. Our beginning. It's just got to be. Because we have to see Lottie grow up. We want to have another baby, and there's so many places we want to see, and it's like the fact that we have so many things to look forward to makes me frightened. Because we have so much to lose. _I _have so much to lose. Ten…I don't know how to be without her. I don't know _who _I'd be without her. Maybe I'd be awful. A monster. Tara's right. We don't exist outside of each other. And I know, one day, that's going to utterly…demolish me. But I can't do a thing about it. And I don't know if I would even if I could. And what I want you to tell me is..." he stopped. He took a deep breath and then began again. "What want you to do is tell me how to stop counting them."

Ten felt his own breath catch in his lungs. He struggled underneath crushing feelings of shame. Because, once again, he could not give his brother what he wanted. His palms still shook every time he saw a gun. He still sometimes held back his affection for his wife for fear she'd somehow end up disappearing.

"I don't know."

The Doctor's dismayed expression hit Ten like a physical strike.

"Please. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be like...—"

"I know. You're not. You're not, Doctor."

"I don't want to miss out on the good because I'm drowning in the bad. Especially when the bad doesn't even _exist. _I'm torturing myself with these scenarios, these _tragedies _that aren't even ours."

"It's because you were taught to expect tragedy."

The Doctor shook.

"But that is not _my_ life. _My life _is not a tragedy. Theirs was a tragedy. We were—we were just the leftovers. We get to make our own lives now. And I don't want mine to be like that." He stopped. "So why do I feel like I'm not in control of any of it?"

In his head, he said the answer he couldn't voice. _Because you aren't, and the reasons for that varies depending on who you ask. It's possible you're doomed because of the DNA inside of you. And it's possible you're doomed because of the things imparted on your subconscious as a child. But, personally? I've always believed we're doomed because of a combination of the two. _Out loud, he lied.

"We can't let ourselves believe we're doomed, because by believing it, we'll make it happen. You can't let yourself think like that. Okay? Stop. Stop thinking it. Stop snapping at people like dad used to. Find a different way to deal with your anger at Tara. Be the opposite of him. Be the opposite of him even if it kills you."

_Be his opposite even if you end up creating your own tragedy. At least then it will be yours. _

He seemed soothed just to have gotten some sort of order from his brother. He nodded.

"Yes. You're right. I know you're right. I've just got to work on it." He whispered.

"Right. In the meantime, let's be thankful for our families."

His brother's damp eyes were dancing in the dim light.

"That's something I don't have to work on. I am _always_ thankful for them."

He found his brother's weakest spot that night. He stared at him and he saw the ways he'd end up breaking. But he couldn't fix it, and perhaps it wasn't his place to. They were doomed together and it'd been that way since the day the Doctor was born. And no matter what tragedies arrived, Ten was determined to be there for him as he always had. Even if it did no good at all.


	8. Everlasting

**A/n: **Thank you to everyone who has read this, reviewed it, rec'ed it, or sent me messages about it! This story and OAAC mean a lot to me so it's been so amazing to feel supported throughout this story :) A special thanks to Annie who listened to me complain, offered her always helpful and kindhearted opinions, and was always there to cheer me up when I felt overwhelmed or frustrated. You're all the best and I'm so grateful. I hope you enjoyed the fic! You might see some familiar faces in my next one.

* * *

_PART 8/8 | MILES | RATED T  
_

**Everlasting**

* * *

When lives ended, there were always questions left over.

The biggest one Miles had left was _why_?

* * *

"Question."

Oscar's voice was overwhelmed. He gasped the word around pants. Miles lowered the wrench from the pipe connector and sat up as much as he could without slamming the back of his head into piping.

"I probably have the answer." He called.

He heard his husband approach. He couldn't see him, but he was sure he was running his hand through his blonde hair in exasperation.

"A ballerina and a—ballerino have kids. What would you expect them to be like?" He demanded.

Miles returned the wrench to the pipe connector once he realized this wasn't a serious conversation. He went about loosening it as he responded.

"Am I supposed to act like I don't already know the answer to this?" He asked. "Okay. Erm…delicate and sweet."

Oscar set his hands down hard on the counter. Miles could hear the motion echoing around from his place beneath the kitchen sink.

"Yes! Except these boys are wild animals! I tried to teach them the basic concept of baseball, and they're beating the crap out of each other with the plastic bats!"

"Well, you are attempting to teach them in our London flat. With balled up socks instead of a proper ball." Miles pointed out. He lowered the wrench and carefully pulled the P-trap out. He slid backwards on his knees, the piece of metal held firmly in his hands. He sat on his legs and huffed once he was free from underneath the sink.

"Buck—" he stopped as the bucket came into view, already being extended. He smiled up at Oscar and took it from him gratefully. He turned the P-trap over and shook it, emptying the contents into the bucket. A ring, a paperclip—

"Oh thank_ god_," Oscar exhaled.

Miles beamed in relief. He reached forward into the mess and pulled free a quarter, grungy and slimy from its trip down the drain. He held it up for Oscar to see.

"There, see? Perfectly fine."

Oscar took the coin and curled it up in his fists protectively. And then he dropped promptly to his knees and pulled Miles into his arms.

"I'm so glad you're handy." He murmured into his shoulder.

Miles' response was cut off by the sound of his nephews screaming.

"YOU CAN'T HIT LIKE A MURDERER! MUMMY _SAID SO_!"

"GET OFF MY HEAD!"

"UNCLE OSCAR! MATTHEW'S BLEEDING ON ME!"

"TAKE IT! TAKE THAT BLOOD, YOU WIMP!"

"I DON'T LIKE BASEDBALL ANYMORE!"

Miles pulled back. Oscar was grimacing.

"The bats? A terrible idea." He shared gently.

"You know, I'm right there with you." He stood and tucked the coin in his pocket, patting afterwards to make sure it was really there. Then he crossed over to the table and opened the first aid kit they kept close by whenever Ellie's kids visited. She'd recently moved back to London—for reasons that were still vague to Miles—so it'd been more often than usual.

"Boys, come to the kitchen, please." Miles called. He walked over to the seat Oscar had sat in and set a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, and there's been a complication with the pie recipe. My editor needs that chapter by morning so I'm afraid that means taste testing later?"

Oscar turned around, his eyes sharp with fear.

"Complication? No. I can't eat anymore blackcurrant. Down with blackcurrant."

"It's a small thing really, I just need you to taste the pie _with _ginger and the pie _without_." He explained. Oscar stared, unamused. "And….yes, they're both blackcurrant. But it's okay, because I fix the sink and you eat blackcurrant pie. It's one of our things."

Oscar sighed. "Can't we change it up sometimes?"

Miles looked up towards the doorway as the triplets charged in, bright orange plastic bats held in each of their hands. Matthew's nose and face were coated in dry blood, David was wiping his bloodied sleeve on his shirt with a grimace, and Peter looked almost triumphant. Oscar quickly reached over and pulled Matthew over to him gently, eager to clean the blood from his face. Miles confiscated the bats as he did.

"We've decided no more baseball," he told them.

David extended his bloodied sleeve.

"Do you see this? This is _disgustin'_." He spat.

Peter leaned over and peered closely at the blood. He then looked back at his identical brother.

"Looks red to me." He decided. And then, almost as an afterthought, he added on: "Shit."

Miles look at him in surprise.

"What did you say?"

"Nothin'."

"No, you did. You said something after you said it looks red."

"No I didn't."

Miles gave up after a moment. The funniest thing to him was the fact that Ellie's three sons all ended up exactly like the very kids that used to drive Ellie mad when _she _was a child herself—argumentative, brash, and wild. And Ellie thought she'd escaped it. Her three daughters were sweet and shy, and then she and her husband had decided they wanted to have a son, but they'd had massive problems conceiving. A few rounds of IVF later and she was pregnant with triplets. She got her son, all right. Two times over.

"Now, when Mommy calls, what are you going to tell her?" Oscar asked the boys.

"That we ate green things!" Matthew supplied.

"We went to bed at an 'propriate time."

"Shit."

Oscar turned around and met Miles' eyes. Miles pulled a concerned face.

"Actually, maybe I'll just talk to her." Oscar suggested, after laughing nervously. He and Ellie were the best of friends, but she expected the same amount of detail in their childcare techniques as she used to in her own homework. And besides, Miles didn't want to concern her. She'd been so down for the past few weeks. She'd called him and Oscar crying _twice_, only both times she couldn't tell them why. Miles feared she was getting a divorce (which was why they offered to take the boys for the weekend—Lottie took the girls), but it wouldn't exactly surprise him. Ellie and Iwan met at their ballet school in Wales and married suddenly. Miles worried whatever spark had brought them together in the first place had long gone out. He secretly thought Ellabell's main motive behind the relationship with Iwan had been revenge on Kathryn for ditching their five-year relationship (a theory firmly supported by the fact that Ellie still looked nauseated to this day when anyone said Kathryn's name), but if her marriage to Iwan was simply an act of revenge, she'd gone above and beyond with the six children. Although, then again, Ellie always had been one for overachieving.

* * *

Eleven years ago, Miles was going through a rough breakup too, but his means of coping were a bit different than his sister's.

He shouldered the failed relationship, filled out what felt like a million different paperwork forms, packed a bag, and ran away for a semester in New York. It wasn't so much coping as avoidance, but it ended up being the best decision he could've made.

He'd been studying at a culinary school for two months when he stumbled upon the hidden church, tucked away in a part of city he hadn't yet been to. It had large oaks surrounding it and a huge, crumbling fountain out front. He could tell from the overflowing garbage bin placed near the fountain that tourists frequented the area, but at six AM on a Wednesday, it was relatively empty. Spare one person.

He wouldn't've said anything to him ordinarily. New York was a lot like London in the way that small talk between strangers didn't just happen. But it was dim, and early, and the man was staring at the fountain like he was hypnotized. Whatever had caught his attention had caught Miles', but he couldn't say if it was the rhythmic patter of the cycling water or the way the rising sun seeped into man's curly, golden hair.

"Need a coin?"

He turned and looked at Miles as he approached, dark circles shadowing his eyes. He smiled politely, and from that one smile, Miles determined he wasn't a native to the city. The stranger opened his palm and flashed a shiny quarter.

"I have one already. Thanks, though."

The tilt to his words made the corners of Miles' lips quirk up, but only for a moment. He reworked his expression to something politely neutral, lest the man thought he was making fun of him.

"All right. It's a bit early for wishing, don't you think?"

The man looked to the fountain, to the coin, and then back to Miles. He shrugged.

"I was awake anyway." He admitted.

An awkward silence tumbled over them.

"Me too." Miles admitted. He glanced down at the coins littering the bottom of the fountain and then looked back up. "Are you visiting New York or…?"

"Studying here. It's my last year of undergrad."

Miles' shoulders went down in relief. If anything, you could drag a conversation about university on for hours with pretty much anyone.

"Me as well. What are you studying?"

"Medicine. I'm supposed to go home for medical school, but…" he stopped. He looked down sheepishly. "No, sorry. I came from a town in Minnesota with a little under eight-hundred people. I forget sometimes that strangers here don't really care about your life story."

Miles felt his heart soak through. It grew heavier in his chest and he took a step closer by natural instinct. More than anything, he liked to help people. It'd always been that way.

"I care." He admitted. "Wouldn't have come over if I didn't."

When the man smiled, dimples popped up on both his cheeks. He didn't look back up until the smile was suppressed, though.

"What about you?" He asked Miles. "You're obviously not a native New Yorker. Are you in school, too?"

"Yeah. Just spending the semester here, though. My university's back in London." He shared. He eyed the stranger's posture and tried to place him in a quick stereotype, just so he could determine which way to go about cheering him up. He decided he was shy but genuine and went for a similar approach. "You said something about medical school. You don't want to go back to—uh…your home?"

The man looked at him with a slightly suspicious expression.

"You're not going to mug me later, are you? This isn't some crafty big-city mugging technique?"

Miles' lifted his hands defensively. "I couldn't mug someone even if I wanted to. My mum says I have a paralyzing guilt defect. I still feel bad for accidentally keeping a teacher's pencil in primary school."

That smile came back, quick and sheepish. He looked down towards the water.

"Just making sure, you know? I'm too trusting for my own good. And as for medical school…" he trailed off. He turned that quarter between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't want to tell you, because then you'll look at me like _I'm _a mugger."

Miles smiled patiently. "Give it a spin. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen."

He glanced up at him from the corner of his eye and then looked back at the water. His words were hardly more than a whisper.

"I'm…well…I'm gay, and when I told my dad…he kind of…lost his shit." The man spared a look up at Miles, but then quickly looked away, like he was afraid of what he'd see. "He blames New York. He said it brainwashed me and now he wants me to come back home."

Miles felt his heart grow just a bit lighter. He studied the profile of the man's face, much more at ease with the conversation once he knew the full context.

"Well, you know, you don't have to do what he says."

He turned and met Miles' eyes. His were sad and almost old in a way. Like he'd been through a lot.

"I don't really feel like there's anything else for me to do, though." He admitted quietly. His eyes drifted over Miles face, down, back up. "You're either very liberal or this makes _a lot _of sense to you."

"Let's go with the latter."

He laughed briefly and turned fully towards Miles, his eyes sparkling with interest.

"So why were you roaming around this early?" He wondered.

"Dunno. Just kind of felt like I should." He admitted. He felt his cheeks warm before he said his next words. "Don't regret it, either."

The man beamed, his own cheeks turning pink. He held out his hand politely, that quarter stuck to his palm. Miles had grasped it before he noticed and he felt the cool metal biting into his skin as he squeezed the man's hand gently.

"I'm Oscar." He shared.

Miles felt his heart quiver, just a bit. He separated their hands slowly and looked down at his own palm and the coin now sticking to his (embarrassingly) sweaty palm. He hadn't been nervous before, but touching Oscar had made him so. He laughed awkwardly and shook it free into his other hand. He avoided Oscar's eyes as he passed it back.

"Miles. And it looks like I mugged you after all." He joked.

His fingers grazed Miles' as he took the coin back.

"Nicest mugger I've ever met." Oscar teased back.

Miles cleared his throat and glanced around him awkwardly, trying to avoid the pounding of his heart.

"Well," he started. "I've got class in four hours. And…I was going to, you know, get breakfast."

He risked a glance up at Oscar. He was relieved to find him nodding along with exaggeration seriousness.

"How funny. I was going to do that, too."

Miles beamed hugely before he could stop himself. He coughed lightly and then rearranged his features to a more private expression.

"We could assist each other. So we don't get mugged."

"It sounds pretty sensible to me. Two foreigners in the big apple—we should probably stick together."

Miles laughed. "Foreigner? Last I checked you were American."

"You've obviously never been to Minnesota." Oscar shot back. Miles watched him pocket that quarter and shuffle towards the sidewalk. He followed in suit.

"No." He admitted. He watched Oscar smile towards a woman running with her dog by instinct before quickly looked back down at the pavement in embarrassment. "But perhaps one day I will."

This time, their eyes were locked when Oscar smiled.

* * *

When Ellie phoned a bit later—after the boys were patched up and sat in front of the television—she sounded worse than ever. She chatted briefly about the recital she and her husband had seen, but she didn't have much interest in talking about it. Miles tried to respect that, but he wanted to know what was wrong. He couldn't help until he did.

"Are you going over to Mum and Dad's for tea today?" Ellabell asked.

Miles found the question odd, but not alarmingly so.

"Yeah. I do every Sunday." He reminded her. He looked up as Oscar entered the sitting room, a stack of letters in his hand. He sat down beside Miles on the sofa and began shifting through it.

"What time?" Ellabell asked, drawing Miles' attention back to her.

"Five, like always." He reminded her. He spotted Oscar tensing from the corner of his eye. He turned to look towards him and watched him lift an envelope slowly, his expression unreadable. Just from that one action, Miles knew exactly what it was.

"Okay. I'll come by to get my boys after, okay? So I'll be there when you home." Ellabell told him. She said it in her elder sister voice, the one she used when she felt particularly protective. And perhaps Miles would've caught onto something, but he was too busy staring at the return address on the envelope.

"Yeah, right. See you. Love you." Miles said distractedly. He ended the call and slid over so his side was pressed against Oscar's. Oscar met his eyes nervously.

"I want to open it, but I'm afraid." He admitted.

Miles could feel his own hands shaking as he reached for it.

"I'll do it." He offered. He took the letter from his husband and pried the flap up. He pulled the folded piece of thick, white paper out. And then he opened it before he could give into the nauseating anxiety that was telling him not to.

_Dear Dr and Mr Smith-Jones, _

_Thank you for inquiring with our agency. We regret to inform you that your adoption application has been denied. Included in this letter are several forms with the complaints our agency found. Any and all correspondence should be…_

Miles pushed the letter over to Oscar. His head ached and he didn't want to read anymore. He didn't even want to know what their reasons for. There came a time—and in their case, it was after the third rejection—that you just weren't curious anymore. You were tired.

Oscar, on the other hand, was flipping to the other pages without a second's hesitation. Miles could feel the indignation coming off him in waves as he scanned the forms.

"They're…this is a fucking joke! I have my citizenship! And what—what're they talking about, we're unreliable partners?! We've been together for eleven years! We've been married for seven!"

Miles repeated the words Bristol had given them the last time this happened. His brother didn't agree with it, but he at least read through the legal jargon.

"Basically, they think we'll separate and start a messy overseas custody battle for the child." His voice was deadpanned, empty. He stared at the weaving colors in their sitting room carpet.

"But they have _no reason_ to think that!" Oscar raged. Underneath his fury, Miles could hear the tears in his voice. He set his hand on his thigh, but he felt numb.

"I'm calling your brother. This is wrong. We're loving, great with kids, wealthy. We have a room prepared, college funds set up, names picked out! My mom's made three baby blankets already! God, my mom. How the hell am I going to tell her about this?" Oscar demanded. He lowered his face to his hands and quickly reached the same tired sorrow that Miles was at. He could do nothing but leave his hand in place.

* * *

"You know when we met? At the fountain?"

Miles looked up from his book and glanced towards Oscar, who was stretched out on the other bed. He was staring up at the ceiling, indifferent to his own books and his upcoming finals.

"Of course." Miles responded.

Oscar turned his head to the left and met Miles' glance.

"I'm glad I didn't throw that quarter in. Because I was about to make a huge mistake."

Miles placed his notebook inside his book to save his place, his full attention on his boyfriend now. He sat up and looked at him curiously.

"What do you mean?" He asked, mildly concerned.

Oscar looked back towards the ceiling.

"I was going to wish that I'd never fall in love ever again."

* * *

Miles hovered in their bedroom doorway before he left for tea. Oscar was sitting on the bed with the triplets. The boys were watching some Welsh program and Oscar was pretending to pay attention. Miles padded over to his side of the bed and perched gently on the edge.

"Are you all right?" He asked softly.

Oscar blinked. He forced a smile.

"Yeah. Yeah. Of course. We've got each other. And our nieces and nephews. We'll be okay."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. Miles could see the repressed sorrow in his hunched posture.

"It'll happen one day. It's just got to." He insisted. He swallowed roughly as Oscar turned his face to hide the tears building up.

"Yeah." He said quietly. He reached up and wiped at his cheeks. "You can go ahead and go to your mom and dad's. I've got it under control here."

Miles hesitated. He reached forward to stroke his shoulder, or maybe take his hand, but Oscar turned away and out of his grasps. Miles thought he might cry, too. He closed his empty fist.

"Okay." He said quietly. He looked to his nephews. "Bye, boys. I'll see you in a bit. Be good for Oscar."

"Okie dokie artichokie."

"God, you're so your mum's kids."

* * *

When they knew they wanted to be together forever, it wasn't as easy as all the films made it seem.

They dated long distance for two years, and it worked okay, but it made them both miserable. When it came time to decide who was leaving home, the answer wasn't so easily found. They were both from large families and felt that leaving would rob them of something inherent to their person. Their answer arrived in the form of a brutal fight between Oscar and his dad. He fled the country in a pained, frustrated rage, and he said he never looked back. But Miles wondered (and worried). Sometimes he caught the dead moments out in public. Moments when he'd stop whatever he was doing and look around for just a split second, like he wasn't so sure what was going on or what he was doing there. He caught the strained thread of homesickness in his voice when he phoned home sometimes. And it brutalized him.

Oscar always reassured him that their flat was his home now. He seemed genuine when he said it. But Miles worried that perhaps he wasn't even being honest with himself.

More than anything, he didn't want to be the one who stole.

He didn't want to steal any happiness from anyone, ever. But especially not Oscar.

Homes were fickle things, anyway. Sometimes—usually—a home was very firmly a person. But other times, a home was a scent that triggered an onslaught of childhood memories, or the sound of a sporting event playing loudly on the television, or even the texture of the wood of the kitchen table at your childhood home.

Miles could be his home for the majority of the time. But he largely failed in every other instance.

* * *

He was thinking of disappointment and the best ways to respond to it when he arrived at his parents' house.

Had he not been so preoccupied, he might've noticed the way his mother was quivering. He might've noticed the way his father couldn't meet his eyes. But his head was filled with stress from home, his other home. There wasn't enough room at that moment to anticipate tragedy coming from this one as well.

He helped his dad carry the tea tray into the sitting room. Once they all sat, he spent a while calculating. He was listening for the right moment in the conversation to vent to them about the rejected application, because he wanted (needed) their reassurance and comfort, but he didn't want to make it all about him. So he listened to his dad talk halfheartedly about the movie he'd taken Ellie's youngest girls (Wendy and Sophia) to and he posed questions to his mum about Lara's new haircut. He didn't notice then that his parents were doing the exact same thing that he was doing (rambling, waiting, fretting). When his parents' words gradually trailed off, and they turned to look at each other, Miles thought that was his cue.

"Mum," he started. But then he stopped, because he could feel the tears building behind his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut to counteract the burning. He wished he could just cry and rage like Oscar could, but he wanted so much to handle his disappointment in a productive way. He wanted to channel his pain into something that would fix the situation. He was realizing that that probably didn't exist. "Dad…"

"We need to talk about something." His dad blurted. His words shook and swayed. He'd wrapped his arm around Clara's shoulders and brought her to his chest. Miles stared.

"About what?" He asked, but his question came out as hardly a whisper. He was suddenly finding it difficult to think. All he could process was: _nothing more. Please. _

"I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner," his mum started. He felt horror begin filling him as her eyes sparkled with tears. It was a slow, paralyzing leak. "I was just so…selfish. I was afraid to tell you. I'm so sorry. I did the same thing my mother did to me—I'm so, so sorry."

She was fighting her tears so valiantly. When her lips trembled, she pursed them tightly until they stopped. When the tears began capsizing, she blinked them away like they didn't exist. Miles moved his eyes to his father uncertainly. The horror had risen to chest-level. He couldn't move.

"Please, don't tell me something bad," is all he could say.

His dad's eyes were more apologetic than he'd ever seen. And more pained. He was suffering to a point that Miles could both read and feel. He had to look away, because he felt he might be sick from the pain of it. He'd always had the gift to look at people and feel what they were feeling, but in that moment, it was not a gift at all. It was a sickening warning.

His mum was bravely blunt and quick in the execution.

"I've got Alzheimer's. It's progressing rapidly. I'm trying loads of experimental drugs and therapies, but if it's yelping—" her sharp sentence broke off. It jutted out, jagged and dangerous. His mum was shaking like she was freezing. Like she was dying. "No, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That's not—the word. I can't, I'm sure it's close to that, I just—"

He couldn't do a thing but stare. He couldn't even cry. The ache in his chest was debilitating to the point of rendering him useless.

"That's all right," his dad whispered. He held her tighter. "Doesn't matter, all right? It doesn't matter."

But it did matter.

That was his mum. She'd been the one to help him through every single thing in his entire life. She'd always had the answers—it didn't even matter what the problem was. And now…she couldn't have a conversation without seeing evidence of her upcoming death.

It did matter.

It mattered more than he was equipped to deal with.

Miles could feel a quivering chasm in his heart. One that threatened to burst open and reveal some part of himself that he wasn't even aware of. He could feel his parents' eyes on him and, for once, he truly had no idea what his face was showing. For someone who'd spent his entire life reading others, he couldn't even read himself. He felt dead.

"I don't know how to handle this," he whispered. He felt the panic swelling until it overtook his entire chest. "I don't know how to do this."

It didn't compute. None of it did. He felt like the gears in his mind were jamming and grinding.

"I don't either," his dad admitted. "We'll figure it out together."

But he was supposed to have his mum with him when he finally adopted a child.

He was supposed to have her by his side, to show him what to do, to be there for him and Oscar. He was supposed to have her there with him. She was his mother. She'd known him longer than anyone on the planet. If she left…who would he be? Would there ever be anyone who knew him like she did? Who would he call when he was unsure and broken? Who would be there if everyone else left, if one of the two people he counted on to be there forever left him? Would he even have his father if his mother was gone, or would his father leave them too? Who would he rely on?

Who would he be?

"How long?" He asked. His throat ached like it was being stitched shut. "How long will you be with us?"

"A few more years, I'm sure. I'm sure."

But she didn't look sure. She didn't sound sure. And the fact was that none of them could know that for a fact. He could lose his mother at any point. He could wake up a mother-less child and would he have felt it when it happened? Would he wake in the night when she passed? Or would he keep on sleeping? Would he feel something leave him forever?

He thought he was going to cry, but it was much worse than that.

His heart broke along the fault lines. And the parts of himself that came leaking out were ugly.

He threw his favorite mug to the wall and watched as it shattered. But it wasn't enough; breaking one thing didn't hurt him near as much as the pain he was in now. It was like pinching yourself to distract your mind from grander pain. He wanted to hurt himself so he could forget what he felt now. So he could forget this day and all the horrifying things it held. He didn't remember pacing the floor and he didn't remember slamming his fist into the wall. But he did, over and over, until the plaster broke and his hand went in. He felt searing pain and he saw blood, and for a split second, it helped. But then his mother dragged him over into her arms and she held him like he was a baby (her baby), like she could mend it if only she loved him hard enough.

"Don't hurt yourself, don't do that," she kept saying. "You don't deserve it. Don't add any more pain. We have enough. We have enough."

It was the truth of that statement that broke him. He crumbled. He sobbed so hard into her shoulder that he couldn't breathe. His breaths were wheezes and his lungs burned. He held her and he begged her not to leave, but he wasn't even sure if he was begging her out loud or if he was praying in his head. What did it matter either way. His life had risen, and risen, and risen—only to come crashing down lower than he'd ever been. He wished he'd never flown at all.

* * *

The first time he was ever bullied, he saw the reasons in the boy's eyes.

He was only eleven and it should've fazed him. But when he looked up into the boy's jeering face, he could clearly and easily read his own insecurities. His cruel words hit Miles indifferently. He turned his eyes back to the sketchbook in his lap and kept on working.

"What?" The boy demanded. He had an undertone of confusion and uneasiness, like failing to get an upset response from his victim was making him doubt _himself. "_You scared of me?"

"Not really."

The thing Miles loved most about art was that it was a lot like baking. It was a whole lot of mixing together until you found the right flavor. He erased the boy's presence and focused on his artwork instead.

It was probably a mistake.

The first smack was to his face, and the pain traveled along the fine bones around his eye. His eyeball ached and he could feel pain shooting down his cheek, his jaw, even to his collarbones. It had been a blinding hit. He felt his sketchbook slip from his lap and fall face-down into the grass. He sat still and didn't move as the pain eventually pandered off. It left a dull ache behind his eye.

"Yeah? How about now?"

It was met with a trilling chorus of laughter from the boy's friends. Miles kept his eyes shut. He felt anger beginning, but as soon as he did, he switched his mind around. He thought about what that boy's story might've been. He wondered if he had a stepfather at home who hit him. He wondered if he'd grown up seeing violence equated with worth and thought this was the best way to get respect. He wondered if anyone out there loved him at all. And Miles knew he was loved. He knew it more than anything else and he knew no one in the world would ever wonder that about him. So he felt sorry for him.

"Not really." He repeated. And he was frightened as he leaned forward to grab his sketchbook, because he was leaving the back of his neck exposed, but he inhaled deeply through his nose to counteract that fear. He regained his sense of composure until the boy snatched that book from his hands. He watched as he ripped handfuls of pages from it and dropped them to the ground. He stepped on them. He spat on them. Miles could feel each story on each page unraveling and disappearing, and stories had always been very important to him. He'd gotten that from his mum.

It was almost like she knew. The minute he'd thought of her, he saw the sun glinting off the silver of her car. He rose immediately to his feet, somehow not afraid anymore. He leaned over and gathered his messed up pages. He snatched the book from the hands of the bully.

"My mum's here. See you." He said casually.

They didn't dare come after him as he headed towards his parent. He climbed into the car. His mum looked equally distraught over his impending black eye and his ruined artwork. She began fussing over his eye the second she spotted it.

"Who did that?!" She demanded. She put the car in park. "Are they still out there?"

Miles turned and looked out the window. The boys were frozen in place, staring at him. He knew their names. He could easily have his mum tell the headteacher (or worse—ring up their mums). He winked at them.

"No, they left already," he fibbed. Her eyes were ringing with sadness as she gently touched the worst spot. "It's not so bad."

"It is so bad. If they lay a finger on you ever again, I'll have them expelled!" His mother swore. She pulled him to her for a hug. He inhaled the scent of her perfume and felt the essence of home settle over him. And he'd never felt anything but safe at home. "Are you all right? Do you think you can save any of your drawings?"

"I'm fine. And maybe. I was thinking of crumbling up the pages more and making it look purposefully distressed." He pulled back. "Is dad making dinner tonight?"

She still wasn't soothed or convinced that it was okay, but she put the car back in drive.

"Yeah." She rubbed the side of the steering wheel anxiously as they pulled from the curb. "You know not to listen to anything people like that say, right? About you."

"Definitely."

"Because nothing they say is right. You're wonderful and perfect just the way you are. And you always will be."

His eye didn't sting so much anymore. He carefully smoothed the dirty drawings and placed the torn sheets back into the book.

"Yeah, I know, Mum."

She reached over and pulled him to his side so she could kiss the top of his head. Ordinarily he'd sigh like she was annoying him—just because it was something he'd learned to do from observing his peers as he got older—but he didn't right then.

"I am always so proud of you."

He watched her subtly press ignore on a call from work. He realized the feeling was mutual and had always been. One of the first things he knew as a child was that he loved his mum and he respected her more than he ever could've said.

* * *

He got off at the wrong stop on his commute home.

He wandered about Hackney for two hours, still quivering and in shock. He wasn't sure what he was thinking when he decided to just walk home. It was supposed to clear his mind, but it did none of the sort. All he managed to do was gain aching knees. When he arrived at his flat, it was dark and he hardly even remembered how he'd gotten there.

Now he understood why Ellie had wanted to be there when he got back. His parents hadn't said as much, but he was sure he was the last one to know. It explained why Ellabell had been crying so much lately. It explained why Bristol moved back to London so abruptly. It explained why Poppy was even more of a bleeding heart than usual (he'd gotten lunch with her a week before and witnessed her cry in public at the sight of an elderly man struggling to get into a cab). It explained why Lottie had been talking of selling her home and living at their parents' house during the week and Enzo's during the weekends. He'd thought it was money trouble, but he understood now. He wished he didn't.

He was always the last one. It'd been that way growing up, too, because he just wasn't as competitive or passionate as his siblings. He was calm and okay with waiting his turn for things. He had always felt so secure in everything—even when he was a preteen. So he wasn't sure what to do now that he felt so uneasy.

He was torn between irritation and love when he entered his flat. But he wasn't surprised. Of course they were all there; where else would they have been? What else was more important now than what was happening? In their world, nothing. This was a variation of every 'what if…?' they'd thought about as children, lying in their beds, their tiny hearts knotted with worry. But they weren't children anymore. Some of them even had children. They had to handle this like adults, only Miles didn't want to.

What was there to say?

They all looked at each other and no one said a word. When Miles looked at each of them, he saw his childhood, he saw the world that only those four people knew of. That world lived inside of them now. That world would end sooner than he could handle. They would still have their father (thank god, _thank god_), but losing their mother would devastate that universe. It would never be anything but a fraction of what it'd once been.

In the end, there were no words to give to each other. Ellabell crossed the space between them and pulled him into her arms. Poppy was the first to start sobbing and Ellie was quick to follow. Miles counted her sobs from the comfort of her arms, and when he hugged her back, he realized he couldn't do a thing to help.

It was the first time they'd all been in a room together with this new shared knowledge. There wasn't a soul in the room that could handle it. Poppy leaned against the wall and cried, her head ducked. Lottie paced back and forth and bit brutally at her already bloody fingernails, her cheeks flushed from earlier tears. Ellie wept with her arms around her little brother and Bristol—

In a way, he was the most equipped of all of them to deal with this, after what happened with Isla. But he didn't seem it. He'd had longer than Miles to come to terms with what was happening, but he still looked to be very much in denial. He couldn't face it.

"The adoption agency's letter was rubbish," he said to his brother, as if they all weren't crying. As if that was the real reason he'd come over. He reached up and rubbed his ears. His blinking grew rapid. "I won't let them do that. I won't let this happen. I'm going to get you two approved, all right? I am. And I'm going to—to—" he struggled. He had to turn his face for a moment and take a deep breath. He finished his statement with his face still averted. "Fix this. I'm going to fix this. All of it. This isn't how it's supposed to work. This isn't fair. I can't—I won't accept it. They can't do this. This can't happen."

They were all very aware that he was no longer talking about the adoption rejection. Except Bristol himself.

"What did you do to deserve this?" He demanded. "You've never done anything to deserve this."

_No, _Miles agreed. _She didn't_.

"Why?" He finished, but by that point, he looked like he might be sick at any moment. He mumbled something about going to check on the kids and hurried off. They respected his need to fall apart in private.

"What are we going to do?" Miles asked. He looked to Lottie automatically. He expected her to have the answers, and she did have one. But it was chilling.

"I don't know."

* * *

He tried.

He tried so hard, and for so long, but he couldn't snap out of the sorrow that'd taken over him.

He was aloof with Oscar. It wasn't that he didn't want him around, or want his comfort…it was just that he couldn't understand. He couldn't know what Miles was going through, because Clara was not his mother.

He could only stand to be around his siblings in those few months following the news. They at least felt the pain he did. They couldn't help him, but it helped to know someone else was suffering like him. It helped to look at them and think: _they're still functioning. If they can shoulder the weight of this every day, I can too. I can. _He didn't always believe it, though.

Half a year flew by so sickeningly fast that Miles rang in the new year with the first panic attack he'd ever had. That was a year gone. One of the last few years he'd ever have with his mother. He hadn't made the most of it. He'd let it slip through his fingers. He'd let it get away.

His brother and Oscar worked relentlessly to get the adoption application approved, but Miles wasn't even sure anymore if he wanted a child. He wasn't sure of anything.

* * *

As always, it was his mother who brought him home.

"You're breaking his heart." She said. She'd been fretting over Oscar the entire day, having picked up on his sadness easily. She acted like he was the one who was ill. Miles could hardly speak around the swelling of his throat.

"I know." He admitted. "I can't help it. I feel so far from him and I made it that way."

They had been making a soufflé, but Miles couldn't stand the sight of the mixer suddenly. He turned away and went to sit at the table. He hung his head and he tried not to cry. He heard his mother walk slowly over to the seat across from his. She set her hands on his knees. When he glanced up at her, she was looking at him sternly, like she'd be sending him to time out at any moment were he still her little boy.

"Look at me and listen to me." She began. He did as she said immediately, partly frightened by instinct to have her looking at him so seriously. She was so injured and Miles realized it was because of him. He felt he could've died from the pain that slammed into him.

"I am dying." She said, and it was as simple and as horrifying as that. "I will not be with you for much longer. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, love. I would stay here with you lot forever, but I can't. No one can. So you have to listen to what I'm about to say, because a day is coming when I won't be able to say anything at all."

He nodded, even though he wanted to run away.

"This is not the way to cope. This is not the man you are. If you decide to shut down and push away those that love you every time you lose someone you love, you will end up with _nothing_."

At the time, he felt it was cruel. He leaned back from her like she'd slapped him.

"Mum," he started, taken-aback and hurt. "How am I supposed to do any differently? You're my mother. You're leaving me. I don't—I don't know, I don't _understand_, I can't handle this any other way—"

"Rubbish. Don't look at me and lie to me. Every day when you wake up, you make a choice. You decide how to handle everything in your life. I'm not saying it's not difficult. I'm not saying changing the way you're dealing with this won't be the hardest thing you've ever done. But don't you dare look into my eyes and tell me you _can't_. I taught you better than that. You can do anything in the world. You have always been wonderful that way."

He turned his face from her. He felt the tears building. She continued on like she'd never in her life had a more important conversation. And maybe to her she hadn't.

"People will die. I won't be the only one. You will lose so many people. Your dad, your sisters, your brother. Maybe Oscar. Heaven forbid, God forbid, maybe a _child_. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that you will lose people. And I know you hate me right now for saying this, for hurting you. But you have to know. You have to understand that everyone can leave you, because if you don't, you'll take advantage of the time you have with them. You'll push them away. If you don't know that everything is bound to leave you, you'll take to your first loss and waste time with others by pushing them so far away that maybe they'll never come back." Her fierce seriousness faded to an open ache. The corners of her mouth turned down and her lips trembled. "Please don't make me die worrying that you'll end up alone. Please don't make me die scared that my babies aren't safe or happy. Please, if it's the last thing you ever do for me, stop pushing Oscar away. Stop acting like you can't work on your future just because I'm not going to be part of it. You have to keep planning, love. You've got to keep moving forward. You can't just stop and wait for tragedy to hit. You can't just…give up like this."

He shattered. He bowed forward and cried weaker than he ever had.

"I'm so scared, Mum," he admitted. It was the first time he said it aloud. "I'm so scared. I don't know how to be without you. I'm so frightened and I'm not ready. I need you still. It's not over yet. It can't be over yet, because it's all not done. There's so much more to do."

She reached for his hands and held them. She was too weak to go stand beside his chair and wrap an arm around him, but Miles knew she would've if she could.

"But nothing is ever done. Things keep growing and things keep moving. There are things I'm going to miss out on, things I—things I wanted so much to see. But I've seen so much. I've done so much. I'm not saying it's right, and I'm not saying it's fair, and I'm not saying I'm not terrified or heartbroken. But I'm so worried about you. I'm so worried about my family. And maybe it isn't my place to ask for anything, because I'm the one that's abandoning you all, but I need…"

He heard her voice break. He tightened his grip on her hands and looked up. He hadn't even noticed when she started crying, but she had tear streaks on her face and more rapidly taking their place. She looked more vulnerable than he'd ever seen.

"I need you lot to be okay. Can you imagine what it'd be like to—to die thinking all you've done in life didn't matter? To look at your children and your husband, at the people you've dedicated your life to making happy, and see them broken and helpless? And to feel your own life slip out and know that you can never _ever _help them, because you will never—ever see their faces again? You'll never hear their voices or see them laugh or hold them when they cry or even, at the end, remember what ice cream they used to like or what song put them to sleep as babies or what you loved so much about them that you never could've imagined another life, you never could've wanted anything else, not even when you were thirty-eight and stressed with five kids and hadn't slept in two days, not even when you were sixty-five and learning you were going to have to leave them all in the cruelest way possible." He could hardly make out her words by that point. She was gasping around sobs. "In the end, I might not even remember you. I might not remember my little boy and I might not know that you used to giggle whenever you saw me when you were a baby, even if I'd only been gone for a few minutes. I might not remember that I would have died for you and your siblings at any moment, no matter the pain. But I will always love you. I will always, always _love you_. And I want to be able to see you smiling even when I don't know who that smile belongs to. That's all a mother wants. That's all I will ever ask of you."

He was the one to cradle her in his arms. His mother was tiny and frail now, but as she wept into his shoulder, he still felt she contained the entire world in her heart.

No matter what she said, he knew he would never be okay. He would never be fully happy again. But, for her, he would try.

"All right," he whispered. He kissed the top of his mum's head. He wished he could go back in time to every day in his teenage years, when he used to flinch back as she kissed his hair in public. He wanted to go back and hold onto her hand forever. "I will be okay for you, Mum. Anything for you."

She pulled back and reached up to wipe at her wet cheeks.

"It's your turn now," she told him. She seemed to get strength from those words. "My life is over. My kids are grown, I'm at the end, and my story is done. But the best thing, love—no, don't look away. This isn't sad. Listen. The best thing is that yours is just beginning. You get to do all the things I've already done. Your entire life is still ahead of you. And that thought makes me strong. That thought makes it all okay. It makes my long and sometimes very difficult life worth it. Every moment of it."

If he could ever manage to even be half as strong as his mother was, he was sure he could do anything there was.

* * *

He did not wait until they were home.

He walked into the sitting room and he didn't have to say a word. Oscar wrapped up the conversation he was having with Miles' dad as soon as he walked over and touched his shoulder. He stood and followed him down the hall, up the stairs, to the room that had been Miles' what felt like a lifetime ago. He shut the door behind them and promptly reached for his husband. He blinked against the urge to cry as he kissed his shoulder and his neck, the months of distance suddenly turning his own heart to dust.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Oscar gripped him fiercely, like he was afraid he'd disappear at any moment. "I'm so sorry. Just please don't leave me. Don't go away. Don't leave me alone. I need you. I need you here with me. I can't lose you, too. I'm so sorry, please, please forgive me."

Oscar had never been one for grudges. Miles could practically pinpoint the exact moment he let his months of injury go.

"Of course I forgive you. And I wasn't angry with you. I was just worried."

"I know you were. I shouldn't have pushed you away."

"I understand why you did. But, Miles…I love her, too. I know she's not my mom. I know I only met her ten years ago. But I love her, too. When I moved here, it was really hard to adjust to not having family around. It was hard to adjust to everything. And your parents made me feel like part of the family and your mom has always treated me that way. I know I won't be losing as much, but when something happens to her, I'm losing something, too. So I know I can't understand completely…but I understand some."

He hadn't thought of it that way. He leaned back and looked up at Oscar. Oscar quickly reached up to wipe at his tears, like he was ashamed of them.

"I'm sorry," Miles repeated. What else was there to say? "She means so much to so many people. I think I forgot that in my own pain."

Oscar's light eyes were intent on Miles'. He was more serious than he'd ever been.

"If you think we should stop reaching out to the agencies, I understand. And I'll be okay. I just want to do what's going to make things easier for you. Whatever that may be."

But things were secure and clear again. Even if only for a moment.

"I don't want to stop. I just needed time to realize that."

Oscar smiled softly. He slowly lowered his arms from Miles.

"Come on. Let's go back out there and make the most of our time here. Your dad was telling me about something Posy did last weekend. I didn't hear much but it involved an entire bag of potting soil, so I'm anticipating a great one."

Miles smiled back weakly.

"Yeah, all right." He agreed.

When they sat back down on the sofa, this time hand in hand, his mother beamed like he'd personally saved her life.

* * *

Time was slipping from them.

But they had one thing left to do before it escaped completely.

Miles could feel the limited time every time he hugged his mother. Her speech was limited those days and she didn't have much to say—or if she did, she couldn't find a way to express it. But she still understood, and it was important that she understood one last thing.

Ellie and Bristol were in the middle of an argument when they arrived at Miles' flat. They were the last of his siblings to arrive. Poppy and Lottie were in the sitting room giving the children a serious chat about behaving while Uncle Oscar, Charles, Iwan, and Enzo looked after them. And Miles was busy baking what had to be the best soufflé he'd ever made. He'd been practicing every day for the past month. His always turned out and always had, but it had to be spectacular this time. It had to be perfect because it was for his mum.

"—a singular soulmate doesn't exist. There are a lot of different soulmates for one person. You can't just lock yourself away for the rest of your life because you lost Isla."

"Ellie, I don't want to go on a date with your friend. I won't ever want to go on a date with your friend. I do believe everyone has one soulmate— it's okay if you don't, but I do. And I had mine. And I lost her. And now I'd like for you to leave me alone about it."

"I'm just worried about you, is all. I'm not trying to be pushy. She's just a really great woman and I think you'd like her. Don't you get lonely?"

"BRISTOL!"

Miles listened to the sound of all his nieces and nephews running through the house. He heard Bristol groan as they all ran straight into him, presumably knocking him off his feet. Miles smiled as they began talking excitedly to him about all the things they'd done. He was a favorite in their family with the kids.

"No," came Bristol's reply, muffled most likely from all of the kids piled on top of him in a hug. "I don't feel lonely."

Miles was usually inclined to agree with Ellabell on the matter of soulmates. But then he thought of his parents and he realized, for them, it had always just been each other. They never could've ended up with anyone else. So if Bristol loved Isla even half as much as those two loved each other, Miles understood why he had no interest in anyone else.

* * *

After affirming his recipe was perfect, he consolidated all his ingredients and packed them in a cooler bag.

He and his siblings arrived only a few minutes late. Their mother smiled throughout dinner and their dad was all right, even though he'd been getting progressively worse and worse alongside their mother. Tonight was as much for him as it was for her. They were afraid they were losing him too, but the thought was too terrifying to entertain for very long. They were all banking on the fact that they'd still have their father to help them through losing their mother.

Miles put the soufflés in halfway through dinner. When they were done, he watched his mother's face glow with pride at the sight of them.

"Perfect." She proclaimed.

He decided it was the very best compliment he had ever gotten. He watched her screw her face with concentration as she searched for the word and he watched the extraordinary effort it took to speak it. It meant more to him than any other one, anyway. And he vowed to never forget the way she'd looked that day when she told him the very thing he'd been working on for so long was perfect.

They all moved to the sitting room after dessert. Lottie made tea and Bristol helped their parents to the sofa. He sat beside Clara and held her hand between his. Poppy wrapped her arms around her dad's arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Ellie passed out the mugs. And Miles took a deep breath.

"Mum, you were wrong before."

Even in her ill state, she managed a stern look. Bristol smiled tearfully at that and squeezed her hand lovingly.

"You told me that your life was completed. That your story was done. And I know what you meant. I'll never forget a word you told me. But…you were wrong about that. Because your life isn't over. Your life is here. And we're still going on."

Clara didn't touch her tea. She looked around at her children. She seemed to understand this was a final goodbye of sorts. This was the time to say things they never had before and never would again. At least not when she still knew exactly who they all were.

Ellie was the one to begin.

"You taught me that it was okay to be me." She said. Her tone was wavering and uneven, but she stood tall and firm. Perhaps that in itself was a testament to the things her parents had taught her. They could hear the love and sincerity in every word. "You taught me that sometimes the bravest thing of all is allowing yourself to be scared. You showed me what it means to be human. You and dad taught me how to love, and that's a love I extend towards my children every single day, a love that they'll eventually give their children, and so on and so forth until the end of time. And it all started with you. It all started with my dad who used to pretend to check my windows every time the wind blew. It all started with my mum who used to press cold flannels to my forehead when I was in the middle of a panic attack. You live on in us every single day."

"And in me." Lottie added. Her mug was quivering some, but that was the only indication to her sorrow. "You taught me the most important things I've ever learnt, and the most important of these was the lesson of unconditional love. You stood by me when I wasn't even myself. You saved me from the worst time of my life. If I hadn't had you…I dunno where I'd be. I'd probably be dead. You showed me what it means to stand by someone. You made me feel so loved from the first memory I have until now. I can't tell you how many memories I have of you two singing me to sleep. You were fearless in your love. You were my saviors in this lifetime. No one will ever mean so much to me."

The Doctor reached over and took Clara's other hand. He held it tightly in his quivering one. Miles could see the love churning in him.

Bristol was on the brink of tears. It only took a kiss from his mother to push him over the edge. He punctuated his words with weeps. It was the first time Miles had seen him cry since this all began. He had kept himself so deliberately busy that he was always in the middle of something at all times of the day. It was likely he'd never slowed down enough to process that he was losing his mother. Once he did, it ripped him open.

"You taught me—to be brave. You showed me what it means to love and to sacrifice. You taught me that the right decision isn't always the easiest. Dad, you always, always loved me. You were always proud of me. I always felt on top of the world when I was with you. And Mum, you made me feel so safe. You were my home and there's other way to put it. Even just the smell of your perfume used to cheer me up. Still does. Thinking back on it, I know I was never the child you two deserved. I know I was problematic and jealous and wild. But I never thought that then. You loved me like I was the best thing that had ever happened to you. You two took care of me and you listened to me and I love you more than I can say. I always will."

Clara was crying by that point. She pressed her face into the Doctor's neck and sobbed. He rubbed her back and Miles felt, for a moment, that he couldn't speak. It was his turn to say the things he'd wanted to for so long, but the words just wouldn't come. He went and sat on the chair beside the sofa, because his legs were shaking and he was having a difficult time maintaining his composure. His little sister leaned forward once he was seated and patted his knee. She smiled at him tearfully and then she saved him. She looked at their parents.

"You made me who I am today in every way." She began. "You showed me from a young age that we always try to help when we can, that being there for other people is the most important thing. You showed me what it means to _love _someone, to truly love them. I saw that in the way you two interacted every single day. More than anything, I looked at you two, and I knew what really mattered in life. There's no way to repay that lesson. That's a lesson people die trying to learn. But I always knew it because of you two. And I'm one of the five luckiest people in the entire world, because I got to have parents like you. I got to have a childhood filled with so much love and joy and laughter. The things you two have done for me, for all of us, for everyone in your lives…you've gone above and beyond. You have left so much _goodness _in this world, so many beautiful memories and so many lives that were better for you having existed. And it's like El said, isn't it? You live on in our children. And they live on in you. And one day, hopefully very, very far in the future, we'll all be together again. Somehow, someway. I believe that."

She'd had the best intentions at heart by going before Miles. But her speech reduced Miles to tears and left him even more unable to speak. He pressed his face into his hands and let Lottie take care of it.

"Charlie wanted to come, Mum, but she couldn't make the travel with her hip surgery. She wrote this for you though, I've got it somewhere in my…yeah, here it is. Do you want me to read it? Or can you?"

"I can," their mum replied. She pulled her face from the Doctor's neck and turned, extending a hand for the folded letter. Lottie handed it to her and perched on the arm of the sofa beside Bristol. He leaned his head against her arm, still crying, albeit silently now.

Clara laughed for most of the letter, but at the end, it turned into sobs. Miles was sure he'd never forget the day his mum told Charlie—it was at a family lunch (things she'd long been invited to whenever she was back from her various travels)—and she'd broken down in tears for the first time Miles had ever seen. For the first time even Clara had seen. That sight had messed Lottie up for a long while.

Clara folded the letter firmly and then pressed it to her chest. She turned and looked up at her husband.

"Write for me later?"

"Of course. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it." The Doctor swore. Miles felt that promise summarized their entire relationship.

It was his turn now and he had no choice but to be brave. He was in last place, as usual. But it was where he was most comfortable.

"There are so many things I want to share about my childhood. So many moments where you two have encouraged me, stood up for me, comforted me. You gave me the complete and total freedom to be myself and, because of that, I have always known who I am. And that's so important…it's one of the reasons I can think of myself as a happy person. But what I think needs to be said more than that is the fact that you two are everlasting. I know it might not feel that way. People die and, after a while, it seems like the world acclimates to the loss and continues going on without them. But it's not like that for you two and it never will be. There has never been and there will never be a day that I don't think of you two at least once. You are in everything. You made us feel like everything. You built this world of such love and trust and _safety_…and we'll never forget what it felt like to live in it. We'll never forget it because we won't be able to. We don't _want _to. I'm happy because of you two. You've done everything to make us happy and you've succeeded. We wouldn't—"

He'd made it farther than he thought he would. He gave into the pain wracking his chest. He bowed his head and cried quietly, disappointed in himself for failing to say everything he needed. When he looked up, he was relieved to see that his mother was smiling tearfully at him. He smiled back.

Lottie perched on the edge of the sofa. She passed her mother her mug of tea. Clara took it this time. Lottie set her hand on her mum's leg and looked down at her.

"Mum," she began. The word broke, but she pressed on. "It's okay if you forget. Because we never will. We will always remember, and you will always stay here, with us."

"Nothing is lost forever," Ellie echoed. "The memories you're losing aren't disappearing. They're still with us. We've still got them. Maybe we won't be able to remember the way you felt when you watched us ride a bike for the first time, but we_ will_ remember the way you kissed us and looked so proud. And isn't it really the same thing?"

"We'll keep the memories safe." Poppy said. She hadn't stopped crying since they sat down in the sitting room. Her eyes were red rimmed and Miles was sure her face was raw from her tears. She pressed her palm over her heart. "I will always keep them safe."

"And we will always remind you." Bristol added. "If ever you forget, if ever you look at us and you don't remember, we will remind you. Even if it's only with a smile."

The Doctor reached over and set his palm on the top of her head. They watched as he stroked her hair with a practiced tenderness. And just from that one touch they could tell he had perhaps the most important thing of all to say.

"Clara, you taught me how to love. And look at all that love has built. You took a terrified little boy and you made him your friend. And he fell in love with you so quickly and so fully that he would've—and still would—do anything for you. They say it's what you remember when you're old that mattered the most, and I'm old now, I'm so old now, so I can look back and have that review. And when I do, I see the loveliest things. I see the way your hair would curl up whenever we visited your dad in Blackpool. I see the lipstick-stained kisses on my white shirt collars, the ones I used to spot when I was already on my way to work and had no choice but to keep going. I see your nose stuck in a book as you helped me study for exam after exam. And I see your pretty hands mapping out your stomach the first time you were pregnant, and I see that same hand wrapped around a tinier one, and I see your eyes sparkle each time one of the children laughed. But here's what I can see most clearly: what they say about memories is rubbish. None of those things meant more than anything else, because everything we've ever done together meant something. And we have done so much." He laughed, but it was weak. "Oh, we've done so much. More than I ever thought we would. And, Clara…whatever comes next, wherever you go, I will be there with you for that. You will never be alone. I know you're scared. I see it when you wake up. But you'll never be alone and you'll never truly lose yourself. Because I carry you here."

He tapped over his heart.

"When we were little, we used to want to change the world. And I think we did that. I really, truly do. We loved like it was enough to change the world, and it turns out that it was."

* * *

Summer brought the sound of birds and the smell of blackcurrant jam.

The cemetery trees were bursting with green and the sky was the precise color of his daughter's blue eyes. He held his son's hand as they walked towards the large, clear area of the cemetery. It was clear of all headstones save two, and ordinarily all the space around them looked bare, but on that day it was packed with life. Miles lifted his hand and waved back at his little sister as she stood from the picnic blanket.

His son tugged on his hand.

"Daddy, can I go play with Mollie?" He begged. He cast his dark eyes over the distance spanning between him and his cousin. Miles squeezed his son's hand and then dropped it.

"Go on," he allowed. Johnny beamed and took off over the grass, shrieking in laughter already. The boy ran straight into his cousin and they both went falling back onto the picnic spread, accidentally landing in the salad El had obviously prepared. Lettuce and greens went flying up into her face. Miles heard Bristol howling with laughter from across the clearing.

"Don't you want to go play with your cousins?" Oscar asked their daughter. Clara hung onto his hand and looked forward uncertainly. She glanced up at her papa.

"Sophia's mad at me. 'Cause I broke her new eyeshadow. I think she hates me."

Oscar met Miles' eyes. They shared an exasperated look.

"She's not mad at you, baby." Oscar reiterated, for perhaps the hundredth time. "It's okay."

"CLARA!" Sophia called. She waved an ice lolly over her head. "I SAVED YOU A STRAWBERRY!"

Clara dropped her hand from her papa's, and just like that, she was off, all her insecure fears forgotten. Miles turned as Poppy reached them. She smiled at him and he felt a massive rush of love and relief at the sight of it. He leaned forward and pulled her into his arms.

"It's so good to see you," he whispered. He felt his eyes sting. "I'm so glad you came."

Poppy was still smiling when she pulled back, but she hugged herself uncertainly.

"Me too," she admitted.

Oscar wrapped his arm around Poppy's shoulders as they walked towards the rest of the group. Miles listened to them chat about Poppy and Charles' shelter. Oscar had been doing healthcare work there on Saturdays and Sundays for about five years now. Miles couldn't help as much—all he had to offer was really great food—but that seemed to bolster people's spirits anyway. They'd gotten involved in it after their parents passed away as a way to keep an eye on Poppy. Their father's sudden death had shattered her for a very long time. They'd been having weekly picnics here in the summers since the passing, but this was the first one Poppy was attending. It was the first time she was visiting the graves. Miles looked at the smile on her face as she greeted his children and hoped, more than anything, that she was over the worst of it.

Lottie, Ellie, Elsie, and Lara were in the middle of telling some story of a trip they'd just taken for Lara's eighteenth birthday. Enzo, Charles, and Iwan were in a fit of laughter, the kids were running around the clearing playing a game, and Bristol was rummaging about the cooler for something, laughing intermediately at the story he'd obviously already heard at least twice. Despite all that, they all turned as Miles and Poppy approached, their full attention now on them. Even the kids ran up to hug Oscar and Miles. Miles kissed the top of every one of his nieces' and nephews' heads (an impressive feat considering he had nine) and then joined his siblings on the blanket. The kids ran off to continue their game.

"Heads up," Bristol called. They turned by instinct and caught the beers he'd thrown.

It was nice when they were all together. It was Miles' favorite thing in the entire world. They chatted about the past and the present and the future as the children played, their smiles warm and their laughter genuine. It had been such a long time coming, but they were all finally getting back on their feet. Even Poppy.

"I like the headstones." Poppy commented. She smiled. "I'm glad you put 'the Doctor' on Dad's and not just his birth name."

"Of course," Lottie commented with a laugh. "He would've rolled over in his grave if we'd buried him as John Smith."

"Mum's is beautiful." Poppy continued. But even that brief exchange had taken a lot from her. She leaned back against Charles' chest and looked up at the sky. He stroked her upper arms and cast his eyes to the children as they approached, as did every other adult on the blanket. Poppy chose the exact moment Mollie hefted herself up onto the Doctor's headstone to open her eyes. The little girl was out of breath and thought nothing of taking a sit atop the gravestone. Following Mollie's example, the other kids started to climb atop them to sit. Poppy lost her peaceful composure.

"Mollie! Get off the headstone!" She ordered. Her hands were quivering. "That goes for the lot of you!"

The kids froze, their eyes widened. Poppy had never lifted her voice at any of them before. Bristol leaned forward and set a hand on Poppy's calf.

"Pop, it's okay. Do you really think Mum and Dad would've minded?"

She froze. She cast her hazel eyes over the kids on the stones and then the stones themselves. And, all at once, she was crying. She pressed a hand to the side of her face. Her laughter was watery.

"No," she gasped out. "God, no. They would've loved it. They would have loved it."

It was after lunch when Clara sat down beside Miles. She leaned against his side and turned her head to examine her grandparents' headstones. Miles watched her eyes scan over the markings thoughtfully.

"I can read this, Daddy," she proclaimed.

Miles smiled down at her. She was just learning to read and had taken quite a liking to it. It probably helped that her dad wrote her her own children's books with her as the star.

"Yeah? Let's hear it." He encouraged.

She leaned forward, her legs tucked underneath her, and touched her grandmother's.

"Clara Os…oh!" She turned to look at her dad. "That's Johnny's middle name! Oswald!"

"Yes, good job!" He praised.

She turned back.

"Oswald-Smith. Like us. We're Smiths, too."

"That's right."

She skipped over the dates, probably because she didn't yet know how to read them out correctly. She stared at the words underneath it.

"Fa…" she turned and looked at her dad in question.

"Faultless."

"Faultless…mother, friend, and…wife." She finished. She looked at her dad. "What's faultless?"

"It means perfect. In every single way." He answered.

Clara nodded. She shifted to the right so she could touch her granddad's.

"John 'the…Doctor' Smith. Faultless father, friend…and…and…hus…husband." She turned and looked at Oscar as he approached. He had his head bent over the bag he was rummaging through as Clara called to him. "Papa, faultless means perfect."

"Like you, jellybean." He replied, his concentration still on whatever he was looking for. Clara beamed.

"I can even read the rest." She told Miles proudly. She looked at the quotation on the bottom, split between the two headstones. Miles reached forward and tapped his mum's headstone. "Start here and read it like this." He traced over to the Doctor's and showed her how the quotation progressed. She nodded and took a deep, theatrical breath.

"'When it…gets…dark…a-nd…" she huffed. She looked up at her dad. Her bottom lip quivered. "That's a lot of words."

He could see how disappointed she was in herself. He hurriedly lifted her up onto his lap and held her close. He kissed her nose and her hair. He reached for the necklace she always wore (a frail chain with a quarter hanging off it like a charm) and lifted the quarter, briefly pressing the coin teasingly to her cheek, as if it was giving her a kiss. She giggled and reached up to set her palm over the back of her dad's hand. She held his hand there, against her cheek, that quarter growing warm between her skin and his palm.

"You did amazing, love. You are so clever and I'm so proud of you." He praised. "It is a lot of words. Do you want me to read the rest?"

She nodded against his shoulder. He dropped his hand from her face and stroked her hair as he read the sprawling quotation.

"'When it gets dark and everybody's gone home and the lights are turned off, it's just me and her.'"

* * *

He still wasn't sure why anything happened.

But he knew everything came back home in the end.


End file.
